Boy Who Lived
by Megii of Mysteri OusStranger
Summary: Not even the birth of her son could compel Merope to continue living after her husband's abandonment, but the green-eyed stranger sitting by her deathbed, cradling her squalling babe, proves to be an unexpected savior. Time Travel. Rare Pair: HarryxMerope
1. Meet Mr Wright

Boy Who Lived

_Not even the birth of her son could compel Merope to continue living after her husband's abandonment, but the green-eyed stranger sitting by her deathbed, cradling her squalling babe, proves to be an unexpected savior. Time Travel. Harry Potter x Merope Gaunt_

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_**A few important notes before we begin: **When I started this story, I intended for it to be a oneshot. When I passed the 15,000 word mark, I knew I would have to post it in sections (because this is fanfiction and posting it all in one go would mean fewer reviews, and I love reviews). As such, please forgive me if chapters start or end abruptly; they're part of a whole; and I'll try to make the transitions as smooth as I can. This story begins Merope and Harry-centric, but migrates toward Tom and Harry as the story progresses. Don't expect an angelic, lovely Tom; just because he has parents doesn't mean that he isn't prone to screwing up or having serious emotional issues. People _will_ die. ... Eventually._

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_Soundtrack for this fic: _

_Beat of Your Heart—Hayley Westenra_

_Forever My Father—Go Radio_

_Feels Like Home—Chantal Kreviazuk_

_Campanella~Piano Arrangement—Megpoid Gumi (Vocaloid)_

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_**Part 1—Meet Mr. Wright**_

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"I hope he looks like his papa."

The orphanage matron gave her a pitying look, but she ignored the older woman's glance, staring watery-eyed at the white washed ceiling. Another contraction wracked her frame and she moaned despairingly as the matron called for her to "Push, push, push, Missus, push!" at the babe that was so eagerly trying to escape her womb. Her emaciated fingers clawed at the clean white bed sheets, and she wished that she had the warm hand of her husband to grip onto instead.

But her husband was gone, fled from her, and she knew it her heart of hearts that he was not going to burst through the doors of the orphanage and rush to her side with love in his eyes.

"Get more towels, Cole!" the matron exclaimed. "The child is crowning!"

She sucked in heavy breath, her brow slicked with perspiration, flesh pale. Her insides had torn with the coming of her child; slowly, steadily, she was bleeding out. Her will to live was feeble as it was; she closed her eyes against the bright light bulbs above her head.

She knew her birthing table would be her deathbed.

"Push, Missus! Push!"

She did so, and cried out against the hot, wet pain that centered on her groin as her insides stretched and tore.

"It's almost out, Missus! One more! Just one more push, alright?"

Her breath was shaky, and her entire body trembled, but she nodded and as the next contraction knotted her abdomen she pushed, hard, and screamed. The child was expelled from her body with a rush of amniotic fluid and blood.

"A boy! Missus, the good Lord has given you a son," said the matron.

She couldn't see the child from her current position, but she could hear the slap of flesh followed by its piercing, healthy cry. She fought to catch her breath as the pulpy after-birth passed and the matron fumbled to try and stem her bleeding. But the wound refused to clot, blood thinned from poverty and narrow heritage. She closed her eyes and shivered. If she were in the presence of witches, she knew she might survive; alas, she wasn't, and she wasn't confident that she wanted to.

What could she do for her son? She had nothing to offer, no home, no money, her only heirloom sold and gone, heartbroken and homeless. She would not go back to the empty shack where she was born and raised; her father would kill her child as soon as he knew who fathered it, the moment he whiffed its impure blood. No, she had nothing, could provide nothing, and it would surely be better for her child if she died here and he was raised in the orphanage.

"Sir, you can't come in here! _Sir_!"

"I'm sorry, Miss—Cole, wasn't it?—but this can't wait—"

Her heavy eyelids fluttered open, her heart swelling with astonished hope. Could it be? Could her husband really be—?

But no, the dark-haired man that pushed his way through the doorway was not her beloved, though he was attractive and well dressed. His green eyes fell upon her pathetic form and lit up with recognition and something she couldn't name. The matron rose, shrieking child wrapped tightly in a threadbare blanket.

The matron's assistant, young Miss Cole, appeared from behind the man, cheeks flushed. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Wool, he was very insistent."

Mrs. Wool nodded sharply. "Can I help you, sir?"

His bespectacled eyes flickered over to her, but his attention remained on the bedridden woman.

"Yes, I'm here for Mrs. Riddle. I'm a former neighbor. I've been looking for her for some time." His eyes focused back on said woman, his expression softening as he moved to her bedside. "You were difficult to find, Merope."

She frowned, puzzled. Who was this man? He was certainly not a former neighbor, as he claimed. She would have remembered, she was sure. He slipped his large, warm hand into her small, cold one, and she was bewildered and only her exhaustion prevented her from flinching when she felt his mind brush gently against her own.

'_I'm here to help. Please, play along_.'

A wizard, then; what did he want, she wondered?

"M-Mister Wright…" she breathed out loud. The matron and her assistant visibly relaxed.

He smiled at her and turned to the other two women, his round glasses flashing at the change of angle in the light. "Might we have a few moments of privacy, Mrs. Wool, Miss Cole?"

The graying woman nodded. "Of course, sir. Er, the child—"

"I'll take him." The man said, letting go of Merope's hand to extend his arms.

Awkwardly, Mrs. Wool settled the whimpering infant into the man's arms, whispering something Merope couldn't hear. The man's eyes hardened and he dismissed the woman with a sharp toss of his head. The door clicked shut behind her.

Merope watched as he pulled the room's only chair to her bedside and sat in it, rocking the newborn in his arms. He only had eyes for her, however, only sparing the babe an unreadable glance.

"Sir, I—" She swallowed, throat dry. "What did the matron say to you?"

He tilted his head. "Mrs. Wool believes that you are going to die." He admitted without hesitation. "She isn't wrong, is she?" It wasn't a question so much as it was a statement. Hearing it out loud, however, somehow made her dire situation more real, and she trembled. He leaned forward, drawing his face closer to hers. "Merope, I need you to live."

She blinked. "Sir?"

His eyes were large through his glasses, and as green as anything she'd ever seen. He couldn't have been much older than her 19 years. "My name is Harry James Potter. I am a wizard, Merope; you can speak freely with me. I can save your life, but only if you can muster up the will. You need to live, for your son."

"I don't understand."

His voice was gentle, but firm, his accent a bit strange, almost lazy. "I know, and I know you feel you have nothing to live for now that your husband has abandoned you. Please understand that I can't tell you everything right now, but your son _needs_ you. He _needs_ his mother."

She bit her lip, wishing she had the strength to shake her head. "I'm sure the matron can—"

"No." The man said stiffly. "It is _you_ he needs. No other." He held the child out to her. The babe had at last quieted, his face scarlet, dark eyes blue as all newborns' eyes were. She lifted her hand to rest her fingers upon his hot, soft cheek, and she trembled, tears tricking down her temples.

"_Tom_." She sobbed. "I have nothing. Nowhere to go…"

"You will live with me." He again interrupted.

She stared at him, speechless, for several moments. Then, finally, "Why?" Her voice cracked. "We are complete strangers. I don't understand."

He lifted his hand and brushed her limp hair from her forehead, a simple act so tender and gentle that tears rose anew in her skewed eyes. She noticed that a strange scar marred his own forehead, and she wondered how he received it.

"Because your son needs you. And I am lonely and plenty capable of providing for the both of you."

Her son. He knew something about her son, and that something, whatever it was, was behind his motivations. What was so special about her son? Was it her blood—Salazar Slytherin's blood, Cadmus Peverell's blood—that spurred this on, or something else? Who was Harry Potter?

"Merope," he pressed softly, speaking her name as if it carried a terrible weight, and she heard all that he did not repeat. He waited for her answer.

More tears escaped and she nodded her head, closing her eyes so that she did not have to look at either Harry or her son any longer. The child's weight settled by her head and Harry withdrew a vial from the pocket of his trousers and put it to her thin lips.

She recognized the brew at once as a Blood Replenishing Elixir and swallowed reflexively. Almost immediately she felt vitality filling her body again, her waxen cheeks regaining their color. But she still bled from the womb, and when Harry stood she opened her eyes to see his cheeks flushed red as he moved to her feet.

"Forgive me, I need to heal your-your…" he coughed, blushing.

"Okay," she rasped. He looked especially young when he was embarrassed, she thought. She was too tired and pathetic to be embarrassed, and turned her eyes to her son as she felt Harry lift the skirt of her dress and press the tip of his wand to her flesh.

"Tom." She murmured to the sleeping babe. "Tom for your father, and Marvolo for my father."

Her bloodied skirts fell back into place. Harry's expression was undecipherable. He dismissed himself once newborn Tom was settled in her arms, promising to return in the morning, and Mrs. Wool and Miss Cole came back into the room and tittered over her, obviously surprised to see her condition growing better by the minute. They gossiped over her, and she was shocked to learn that Harry had donated five hundred pounds sterling to the orphanage.

Who was he to give so freely such a large sum of money, a high-ranking employee of the Ministry of Magic, perhaps, or the heir to a large fortune? He couldn't be a pureblooded wizard, not with that kind of generosity. Purebloods were never so kind, never so selfless. That would make him a muggle-born then, or a half-blood with noble, muggle ancestry. Potter was a common enough surname in the mundane world. There were no Harrys on the Wizarding Potter family tree, that much she knew, not even illegitimate ones. The Gaunts may have been destitute and racist to the extreme, but she was not completely uneducated.

He came back for her the next morning and she was ashamed to find that she had not truly expected him to keep his promise. He greeted her with a smile that made her insides flutter—she was heartbroken, but Harry _was_ ever so handsome—and escorted her to a muggle vehicle. He did not want to risk harming her by Apparation, he said, and felt that Flooing might be too much for her recovering body. Merope enjoyed watching him drive the peculiar automobile; even when Tom had been with her, they never drove anywhere themselves. New Years Day had never been so fitting as it was now, she thought.

As promised, he answered the questions she hadn't the strength or clarity of mind to ask the night before. He didn't work in the Ministry, she found out. He was a _subject_ of study in the Department of Mysteries. He had been displaced, he said, and couldn't be put back where he belonged, and he doubted that the Unspeakables would _let_ him go home even if the option became available. So, Monday through Friday, he would go in to the Department and allow the Unspeakables to poke at him and experiment on him and question him and in exchange he was provided anything and everything he asked for and everything they thought he might want:

A comfortable, countryside house with a white picket fence, fine clothes, connections to both Muggle and Wizarding worlds, tickets to any sport game or theatre show he desired, the newest brooms and cars, rare books, fine foods, house elves, and so much more.

Everything but his freedom.

Despite their availability to him, he didn't keep house elves, and when she moved in it took a while for it to really sink in that he didn't expect her to cook or clean—She hadn't even known men _could_ cook and clean for themselves. When she awoke in the mornings he would already have breakfast on the table; when her clothes hamper grew full, her skirts vanished and reappeared clean and sweet smelling in her closet.

That New Years Day when she opened her closet for the first time to put away her worn, moth-eaten robes, she found it full of beautiful dresses she felt she was too ugly for. She had cried over them, and he had simply held her in his arms and hummed to her and summoned the best doctor in the country to fix her wandering eyes—the world had never been so _clear_; no longer did she see things in double, though in the end she'd still needed glasses—and crooked teeth and prescribe nutrient potions—she had been malnourished and abused since childhood, not unlike himself, he told her—and sent her all the way to Paris that very weekend for an afternoon to endure the spa treatment, to get her skin and toenails and hair fixed up and painted.

She'd Flooed home dolled up and in tears, and he'd apologized on his knees for overcompensating—"I want you to be happy with me," he'd said, "But I don't know how to do anything, really, especially not how to deal with girls. I know every girl wants to be beautiful, so I thought… I thought…"—and she knelt next to him and said that it was all too much for her, the jewels, the dresses, the French fingernails. That even in her most extravagant fairytale daydreams, she had never been so lovely, so pampered, and it was _just too strange_.

So, he'd sent back all of her dresses and returned all of the jewels, and replaced them with ones that were more humble, but, she thought, still too gorgeous for such a woman as her. She didn't vocally complain again, but he seemed to know without her saying so and admitted that he felt the same, but that the Ministry wasn't all that willing to see him strut around in commoners' clothes, even if it was what he felt he really was.

He doted on her son, for reasons he couldn't really explain and she couldn't really understand, but when she heard little Tom cry in the middle of the night—not a particular rarity, but even to her, inexperienced as she was, she knew that her baby was abnormally quiet—Harry was never far behind her, and was sometimes at the baby's crib before her, rocking the tearful, needy infant. Though he would sometimes sigh in exasperation, he never complained about having to feed the baby or about changing his nappies or about bathing him. Her son's birth certificate read: _Thomas_ Marvolo Riddle, instead of simply Tom. Harry had insisted, though she didn't quite understand why, but agreed that it sounded more complete that way. Stronger. Steadier. Nobler.

Merope quickly grew fond of Harry, and he of her, though at first she was wary of him and he sort of viewed her as extra baggage that came with the baby: not particularly wanted, but necessary. But, as the weeks passed, they went from awkward strangers to friends to gentle courtship. During the daylight hours when he was at the Ministry, she filled her afternoons with caring for little Thomas and learning from the tutor Harry had asked for to fill in the empty spaces in her education. She found that she loved to read, but working with her mother's wand was always nerve-wracking as it brought back memories of her father's constant criticism, his quick temper and quicker hands. Letting go of the mindset that she was not and would never be good enough was difficult.

In the evenings, he would stumble through the fireplace and immediately set to making supper. The routine helped him wind down, he said, and kept his mind from wandering to unpleasant things. Sometimes he hummed or murmured the tunes of songs she had never heard of to the pots and pans and to Tom. The food was always delicious. When Tom had been fed and burped and rocked to sleep, Harry and Merope would settle in the lounge and read or listen to the radio or talk. She told him that she was born on Saint Valentines in 1907, and he had told her that he was born on the 31st of July in 1980. She didn't press for an explanation. He had been under the thumb of the Department of Mysteries for a year and a half, already, he said, and she wondered what there could possibly be left for them to learn about him. He was a Parselmouth, but unrelated to Slytherin, she learned, and when her eyes flickered to the lightning bolt shaped scare he bore upon the revelation, he smiled grimly and commented that she was a quick learner, and that she probably would have been in Ravenclaw had she gone to Hogwarts, regardless of her ancestry. She blushed so fiercely she was sure her skin would never go back to its original color.

February 14th caught her by surprise. Though she knew it was a day for lovers as well as her birthday, it had never before been a day of particular note for her, not even during her brief time married to Tom Riddle.

Harry arrived home early, stumbling a bit as he always did when traveling by Floo. His untamable hair was a tad more wild than usual, and his smile was wide and bright. Merope was nursing Thomas, cradling him to her breast with one arm while she held an open book on her other, when Harry stepped through.

"Hey, Merope!" He greeted.

She smiled, and covered her son and exposed breast with her shawl. "Welcome home, Harry. You're back so early today."

"That's because today is a special day."

She tilted her head, puzzled. "It is?"

Harry's wide smile was replaced with a gobsmacked expression. "O-of course it is! It's your twentieth birthday!"

She blinked, lowering her book to her lap. "Yes, and? Breakfast was wonderful this morning, thank you."

His eyebrows rose and when they lowered he smiled again, this time somewhat strangely. He sat down beside her on the sofa and placed a hand over hers. "Merope, surely you don't think an especially nice breakfast is the only thing I'm going to do for you on your birthday?"

She blushed at the physical contact, meeting his green eyes with her dull, dark pair. "Um, well, I did until you said that just now."

He laughed. "Merope, I'm taking you out on the town tonight. Dinner, a film, and dancing! That's what people do, isn't it? So when you put Tommy to bed, get dressed and we'll go, alright?"

Her eyes widened to the size of galleons behind her horn-rimmed glasses. "A film?" she breathed. "Tom took me to one once, he read the text for me. It was amazing. Are we really?"

Harry's eyes sparkled. "They have films with sound now; no need for text anymore!"

"Oh my! And-and _dancing_? I-I… Harry, I don't know how to dance…"

"Great!" He exclaimed, "Neither do I!"

"Oh, _Harry_…" She lifted a trembling hand to her mouth and turned her face away. Harry Potter's kindness never failed to amaze her; never before had Merope met anyone so nice and generous. He had something of a temper, but who didn't, really? Harry's bouts of foul mood were nothing compared to the fits her father and brother would have.

"Oh, Merlin… Merope? I'm sorry, did I—? I-if you really don't want to go out that badly I can cancel the babysitter and I'll figure out something to do here at—"

"That's not it at all, Harry!" She said, turning back to him with a watery smile. "I would love to go out with you!"

He blushed to the roots of his hair, but his grin was as wide as the English Channel. "Cool!"

Merope didn't know what the word meant in that context, of course, but it was obviously good. She put away her book and put Tom to bed, kissing the babe on the forehead as he suckled his thumb. She bathed and curled her hair and shuffled through her closet—which in her opinion was still much too large and extravagant—for a dress that would be easy to move in, and she at last picked out a fashionable straight shift with an asymmetric, scalloped skirt that boldly showed her knees and bared her arms. The pinnacle of muggle fashion, it was very nearly the same shade of green as Harry's eyes. Her father would have had such a fit if he caught her wearing such a dress! Somehow that only added to its appeal. She clad her legs in honey-beige, embroidered art silk, and snapped on Mary Jane shoes. She fitted her forehead with a beaded headband. She stared at her reflection for several long minutes, wondering at herself, fingers pressed against the glass as if she might fall through and finery dissolve into the rags she wore for so long. She knew she wasn't a beautiful girl, or even pretty, and she never would be, but she had only ever felt this lovely when she had stood at the altar and married Tom Riddle. She pinched herself to make sure she wasn't dreaming. The clothes stayed right where they were and she still felt like she was pretty.

At the last moment she decided against lipstick, worried that she was too bold as it was, that her lips were too thin. Harry was chatting amiably with the babysitter—an older, graying woman named Carrie Taker—over tea when Merope came downstairs. His speech turned to stuttering when she walked into his line of sight, and he nearly dribbled tea all over his jacket and tie. Merope giggled and hid her face behind her hands, peeking out from between her fingers.

He drove them to town in what he told her was a Deusenburg Phaeton; it was painted gold and the seats and steering wheel done in red leather. His tie bore the same colors, she realized.

"You were a Griffindor, weren't you?" She said out of the blue.

He laughed and beamed at her, and she knew she had guessed correctly.

Dinner was pleasantly humble, and they enjoyed rich lamb and potatoes in an Irish pub, alternating between eager talking and awkward, blushing silences. Harry understandably was vague about some subjects, green eyes watching the other diners warily for fear that he let something slip that he shouldn't in public. The film was even better. They got to see the American film, _Douglas Fairbanks in Robin Hood_—it was almost five years old now, having been made in 1922—and Harry eyed the black-and-silver screen with interest and amused snickers while Merope "oohed" and gasped and shrieked when the hero jumped off a castle balcony and slid down a 15 ¼ meter curtain to his dashing escape, wiggling in her seat. They both wondered if the actor that played King Richard the Lion-Hearted, Wallace Beery, was related to Hogwart's current Herbology professor.

The dancing, however, was best of all, though the other dancers gave them a wide berth as Merope and Harry clopped around awful renditions of the cake walk and turkey trot and shimmy to ragtime music and young jazz. Merope's mortification at her clumsy steps was alleviated by Harry's strange ones—a stiff, puppet-like move he called "The Robot" had everyone staring at him strangely, but soon attempting to imitate it. She giggled uncontrollably when she tried to copy the limp arm movement, feeling goofy and childlike. Not a single waltz was to be had, though they sort-of slow danced to a local's renditions of "I Am Awfully Glad I Met You" and "Come Josephine," and they sipped cocktails and flirted over their olives. Merope was appalled her own boldness, but couldn't gather the sanity of mind to hold her tongue, not that Harry seemed the least bit fazed. It made her wonder what girls were like in his home time. Did he miss flirting with girls like that? Was she prude in comparison? Was she boring? Was she undesirable because she already had a child?

The moon was high when they finally stepped out for a breath of fresh air, just a bit sweaty and smiling like idiots. His fingers were entwined with hers and he seemed to have no intention of letting go any time soon. Winter was still present in the air, their breath curling visibly in the air, and when goose pimples rose on her arms he shed his jacket to place it over her bare shoulders.

"Thank you, Harry," she said shyly, leaning into his warmth.

"You're welcome, Merope."

"No, really," she insisted, "Thank you. For everything you've done. _Everything_. I've never had such a wonderful time. You're the nicest, kindest, most wonderful man—person—_human being_—that I've ever met."

He flushed, looking very, very uncomfortable, and stuttered for several moments, trying and failing to accept her thanks and insist his selfishness at the same time. He was even less accustomed the compliments than she was, it seemed; she, at least, had her time with Tom to get her used to being complimented, even if it had all blown up in her face in the end.

"Merope, I'm sorry, but I've got to tell you something," Harry said, pulling her out of her thoughts. She looked up at him questioningly. "I told you that all I had planned was dinner, a movie, and dancing, but I actually have one more birthday present for you."

She felt exhausted at the very thought! He had given her so much already; she didn't need anything else!

"What?" She asked.

He leaned down to whisper in her ear. "Check the pockets of my jacket." She shivered at his breath, but obliged him. Her fingers closed around something textured—beaded, she decided—and cool. Pulling it out, she found herself holding a long, stylish necklace. It consisted of several strands of big, white and pale gold pearls, in the middle of which hung…

Tears rushed to her eyes, prickling and overflowing before she could stop them. Harry reached out to hold the necklace at length, displaying at eye-level the gold, emerald-studded locket at its center.

"My locket…" she managed before her throat closed completely.

"Mister Borgin was… _extremely_ reluctant to part with it," Harry said, "But as it _is_ an artifact of one of Hogwart's Founders, there really wasn't much he could do, legally, to keep it once he had Unspeakables pounding on his door. I had to 'tip' him most generously, anyway, and I _still_ doubt that I'll _ever_ be welcome in his shop ever again; he'd curse me when my back was turned. After that, it was simple enough to get it put on a string."

He moved slightly, gesturing that he intended to clasp it around her neck, and she compliantly lifted away her perm so that his fingers could flit across the nape of her neck. The locket settled heavy and familiar against her sternum, and she held it tightly in her fist, knuckles ashen, palm aching. His hands lingered just a bit longer than appropriate, one of his hands darting up to touch her hand that held up her hair and the other trailing along her too-sharp jaw line to wipe at the stream of tears dripping from her chin.

"Please, don't cry. I've never been good at dealing with crying girls…"

Maybe it was the alcohol or the emotional upheaval, or maybe she couldn't tolerate his kindness any longer, or maybe it was a combination of all three, but her control finally snapped and she spun around to face him and pressed her mouth firmly against his, hands flying up to hold his head in place. Her aim was off by a few centimeters, but that was remedied quickly enough and once he had recovered from his shock and teetering balance—she had nearly knocked him onto his bum—he slipped his arms around her long waist and kissed her back. It didn't last particularly long, nor was it especially passionate, and it was far too wet, but when their kiss broke and they came up for air, she exclaimed the most romantic thing Harry had heard to date:

"I want a divorce!"

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_To Be Continued... (can you tell that I love the 1920's?)_


	2. Trouble From Two Ends

Boy Who Lived

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_**Part 2—Trouble From Two Ends**_

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So, a divorce he got her. Her personal copy of her Marriage Certificate was long gone, but tracking down the priest that had preformed the ceremony was simple enough and from there it was laughably easy for the proper paperwork and court stamps to be run through. Requests from the Department of Mysteries were not typically questioned or denied, no matter how strange or outlandish or absurdly _normal_—the word "normal" was not synonymous with the Department, after all—they were. In fact, the biggest obstacle that they came upon was none other than Tom Riddle himself, whose signature was needed to officiate the separation.

Though she wanted the divorce, Merope had difficulty with the idea of seeing her soon-to-be ex-husband again. She would gather up her meager courage, only to pause halfway through—her hand stilling on the partially turned doorknob; fingers knuckle-deep in the container of Floo powder—and retreat, deep in thought or sometimes simply blank and numb. Her torn behavior went on for very nearly a month, until at last Harry sat her down and told her that he would take care of Tom Riddle himself. She protested at first, but it was feeble and she submitted quickly, knowing well from their weeks together that very little could change Harry's mind once he was set on something. It didn't prevent her from being nervous on his behalf, however, and she coddled little Thomas more than ever, letting his smiling, teething mouth gnaw on her fingertips.

Little Hangleton was just as Harry had seen it in Bob Ogden's memory: the church and graveyard at the center of the town nestled between twin hills, the sky blue as forget-me-nots, country road caressed by wild blackberry brambles. He could all too clearly remember the brief, terrifying time he had spent in that cemetery, watching the Dark Lord Voldemort rise again, dueling him, Priori Incantatem, Cedric Diggory's still warm cadaver, the splitting pain in his scar that was intense he thought he would die from it. Behind his glasses, Harry Potter's eyes closed, pushing the flashbacks away. His hand clenched around his wand, taking reassurance from its solid, if fragile, presence. The years had not softened the pain of that night, nor the pain of the following years, only numbed it, and he had done a good job of hiding his memory-riddled nightmares from Merope so far. There was nothing to gain by dwelling on them and worsening the condition.

He bypassed the Gaunt House, unsure if Marvolo had been released from Azkaban yet and unwilling to tickle the sleeping dragon if he had. The few snakes he heard slithering along the roadside, hissing to each other or simply to themselves as they bathed in the heat of the sun, seemed intent on avoiding the shack. Remembering the sight of the dead adder nailed to the door, and Morfin's crooning threat to a live one, Harry couldn't blame them. He did not speak to the snakes, certain that they wouldn't take well to it; the Gaunts reputation was a bad one, even in the animal kingdom, it seemed. It was a much safer and efficient bet to ask the local humans for directions to the Riddle's Manor, picking up bits and pieces of scattered gossip along the way.

The Riddle family's shining reputation was forever tarnished by Tom's elopement with Merope. Harry learned that when Tom was returned to his senses and came back to Little Hangleton, only fear of further scandal prevented the middle-aged Thomas and Mary Riddle from leaving their son to the streets. Tom Riddle shut himself in the mansion in disgrace only coming out to take long horseback rides away from the public eye. His former beloved, Cecilia, refused to see him or accept the family's letters and messengers. The servants complained to the butcher and baker and candlestick maker of the man's foul temper and paranoia, childishly demanding to be waited on hand-and-foot. Most villagers did not even know who had run off with Tom; the Gaunts had been self-isolated and obscure enough for the townspeople to hardly even recognize their absence. The father and son were in prison and the daughter was gone and that was that.

Even if they did still own the majority of the town's property, the Riddle's would never again possess the same respect they once had, forevermore the subject of gossip and quiet snickering and following eyes.

The Manor was magnificent, if a bit simple; its lawns were pristine, painted walls clean, widows spotless. Around it dwelled a pompous atmosphere, but there lingered a distinct air of melancholy, as if a dementor had recently drifted through the garden.

Harry double-checked his suit and tie for any imperfections—he was dressed to the nines and then some; his glasses were framed in goblin gold—and firmly struck the brass knocker against the door. A stiff, mousy-haired maid answered, but when Harry asked to see Tom Riddle he was led to the lounge and greeted by the eldest one.

Thomas Riddle wasn't old, not yet, but his dark hair was well on its way to being salt-and-pepper, he wore a monocle on his left eye, and he possessed a thick mustache that curled at the ends like a villain from an old silent movie—all that was missing was the cape, train, and damsel in distress. He gave Harry a critical once-over; lips pursed as if tasting something sour.

"What can I do for you?" He asked.

Harry extended his arm and the two men exchanged a firm handshake. "Harry James Potter, sir." He said, pulling to the front of his mind every bit of etiquette he knew. Hermione would have been so proud. "I believe I am actually looking for your son: Tom Riddle the Second, isn't it?"

The older man's mustache twitched. "The Third, actually. I am the Second."

"My mistake, sir."

"Indeed. Ophelia!" he called. The mousy maid from before approached and curtsied to her master. "Fetch my son at once." He turned back to Harry. "Might I offer you a drink, Mister Potter?"

"Thank you, but no."

The maid returned shortly with Tom Riddle III. Harry was momentarily thrown; the man's resemblance to the young man he knew Tom Marvolo would grow up into was uncanny—though the eye color was wrong, his features a bit too sharp, his countenance too depressed, his age twenty-two instead of sixteen—and Harry was forced to hurriedly shake off an awful sense of déjà vu. The eldest Riddle introduced his son to the stranger and they took seats around the coffee table.

Harry pushed his glasses up the length of his nose and opened the briefcase he carried with him to extract the documents within. "I will try to keep this as simple as possible, Mister Riddle, I am here for one reason: Missus Merope Riddle, nee Gaunt, has actively sought to divorce you. All that is needed to finalize the divorce is your signature on these papers."

A reaction of some sort, most probably in the negative, was expected, and after a moment of stunned silence Harry's expectation was explosively fulfilled. Tom Riddle III leapt to his feet, shouting and looking decidedly sickened. Harry was saved the attempt at calming him by the eldest Riddle male.

"Sit _down_, Tom!" Thomas boomed, a bit red in the face, but clearly more upset by his son's unsightly reaction than the news itself.

Lips thin, Tom obeyed, long fingers curled into tight fists. "That-that woman _dares_ to divorce me? If anyone has the right to file for such, it is I!"

"And yet you have not, though you two have been separated for nearly a year." Harry said with feigned calmness. Such arrogance, this man! "Why is that, I wonder?"

Tom the Second looked over at his son with a raised eyebrow, who gained two red spots on his high cheeks.

"I never expected to hear from her again. Died in a gutter, I thought most likely; who would take in an agent of the Devil like her? She certainly would not have dared come begging to my doorstep!"

Harry felt a headache coming on, and for the sake of appearance resisted pinching the bridge of his nose. "Mister Riddle, your wife is many a things, a saint certainly not one of them, but she is no practitioner of Dark Arts either."

Tom snarled. "Do you have any idea what that wench did to me? Drugged! I was as good as raped, like a feeble slut! She's a freak, her and the rest of her filthy family! Heathen witches!"

Harry fixed the man with a chilling stare. "Mister Riddle, I am aware of what Missus Riddle—"

"Don't call her that! Good God, man! That woman is no wife of mine!"

"Merope, then. I am aware of what she did to you, and _what_ she is," he fixed the other man with a meaningful look, "However, that is not my business here. If you are so eager to rid yourself of her completely then I suggest you sign the documents. If you wish to take her to court for her deed, then you do that on your own time, not mine."

Both Riddles paled at the thought of the issue being taken public, but the younger's face quickly reddened again. "If you think I'm going to give that hag half of—"

"You don't need to worry about that, Mr. Riddle; Merope is being provided for and has no need for your money or properties. She just wants a divorce."

Sneering, Tom snatched up the offered fountain pen from Harry's pen and signed his name away. His father picked up the documents, his eyes skimming over their contents.

Tom finished quickly and stood, eyes flashing. "There! Now, get—off—my—property!"

"Not 'your' property, boy," Thomas growled, "Not until I'm good and dead. I have a few things I want to discuss with Mister Potter. If you have no desire to listen to it then you're dismissed. I don't care how old you are, I'll take a paddle to you, Tom."

Harry had to swallow a snicker as the younger Riddle fled the room, tailcoat snapping, and his face perfectly puce. Thomas did not look up to speak to Harry right away, instead lingering on the divorce contracts for several more minutes. When he seemed satisfied, he removed his monocle and scrubbed a hand over his creased face.

"Ophelia! Fetch me my spirits!" He called; his voice raised just enough to reach the hall. Setting the papers back on the table, he replaced his eyeglass and looked evenly at his guest. "I apologize on my son's behalf for his behavior. He is not as he once was; he returned to us a changed man. I've no doubt the locals have gossiped to you about it, I know how they are." He fingered the papers again, as if he couldn't decide what to do with his hands. "This is a very thorough contract, and a fool my son is for not reading it before signing our name away. Sloppy. Careless. I feel I should thank you for not taking him to court and squeezing us for everything we're worth."

"Sir—"

Thomas Riddle held up a hand to quiet him. "I ask for one thing. The…" the word came out strangled, "_child_… I want nothing to do with it. I never want to see it or hear of it. I do not believe Tom is aware of it, and I have no intention of informing my wife. If it bears my surname, discard it. I do not know the exact circumstances of my son's… _affair_, but if it is remotely possible for my family's life to continue as if it never happened, I want it to be so. I do not care that the child is legitimate in the eyes of the God; it is privy to nothing of my estate. Forgive me if I seem cruel. I feel this in my family's best interests."

Harry nodded slowly. "I understand, Mister Riddle. I don't believe your request will be problematic."

"Thank you."

The maid entered then to serve Riddle his spirits—whatever it was, it was strong; Harry could feel the alcohol's fumes burning his nostrils even with two meters between them—and she escorted Harry to the door, curtsying farewell before closing the front door on his heels. He walked several blocks before slipping into an alley and Apparating to London with an ear-popping crack. The sooner the completed divorce papers were put into the Ministry's archives, the sooner he could go home.

Home. The thought lent warmth to his heart, a heart that had been cold with pain for what felt an eternity. For the better half of his life, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had been the one place he had considered home, the Burrow and #12 Grimmauld Place coming close, but never quite stirring the same feeling of security, of _belonging_. Then, he had arrived now, and for several months he had lived within the Department of Mysteries, jabbed and studied and prodded like an alien from a sci-fi flick. He had begged and bartered for a sliver of freedom until at last they decided to slacken the leash—lest he strangle himself in it—and stuck him in a cottage an hour's drive away from civilization; a large-ish house called Holly Copse Cottage for the trees. That certainly hadn't been home, either, though he relished in the fresh air, the sunlight, the ability to go to the bathroom without being watched an analyzed like a bacteria sample in a Petri dish. He was allowed to travel around Britain now, pursue his interests—like tracking down Merope—and no resource was ever denied him—the Ministry wanted to keep their pet happy after all, it wouldn't do for him to turn around and bite them in favor of another master—though he would always have to go back to his cottage and into the prodding hands of the Unspeakables.

They were aptly named.

Since having located and taken in Merope and Tom, however, his feelings toward the cottage had gradually changed. He hadn't been lying that New Years Eve; he was terribly lonely, and with the addition of the two to his life, he found that ache slowly seeping away. It would never completely fade—how could it?—but the pain was softening.

Merope welcomed him home with an anxious smile and a slightly burnt aroma. She had wanted to have a hot supper waiting for Harry upon his return, but tightly strung nerves had led to less-than-edible results. In her arms, Tom reached for him, gurgling infantile nonsense until Harry picked him up.

"You are officially Miss Gaunt, again." He told Merope.

Her lower lip trembled and she wrapped Harry in a hug, her too-pointy nose pressed into his shoulder.

"Thank you."

They had not kissed since Merope's birthday; their actions were not so bold or daring without the influence of liqueur, their attraction not so strong. They floated around each other, stealing only the occasional lingering touch or roaming glance. When she helped him with the dishes, sometimes their hips bumped.

Thomas developed quickly, as Harry knew he would. He was immensely curious about the world around him, and as such began crawling and babbling before the typical age. Because of this, he got into a lot of trouble and made a lot of messes pulling trinkets from their shelves, getting into obscure corners of the house, and sticking everything he could get a hold of into his mouth. He drove Merope nearly spare with worry, and though she occasionally grew cross, she never raised her voice.

He remained an abnormally quiet infant, and paid immense attention to his mother and Harry when they talked, and when Tom did speak, his words were said with intent and always clear, if somewhat slurred by his still-developing motor-skills. Unsurprisingly, he most often spoke to ask to be read to. It was impossible to get him to sleep in the evenings without having a story told to him. Merope spent entire afternoons sitting on the couch with Tom, reading Tales of Beedle the Bard—which she knew—and fairytales from the Grimm Brothers and Hans Christian Anderson—which she didn't—among others such as Norse and Greek mythology and American folktales like Rip Van Winkle.

The day Tom turned seven months old was also Harry's birthday. Merope had not dared to hope that Harry might whisk her away with him for another night on the town, and she prepared a Bisquick shortcake for him for when he arrived home.

But Harry knew well that life, for him, was rarely so courteous.

Tom sat in his high chair, organizing his soggy CheeriOats into perfect lines when Merope glanced out the kitchen window just in time to see Harry Apparate just outside the garden gate, his arm slung around the shoulder of a green-robed healer. He dropped and vomited violently in the grass. The plate Merope had been holding slipped from her hands and shattered on the floor.

Tom started at the sharp sound. "Ma?"

But Merope did not answer, lifting Tom out of his seat and sweeping out of the room. She set the child in an armchair with a soft command of "Don't move," before rushing to the front door and throwing it open, "Harry!"

His face was ashen, one half of it covered in angry red and purple splotches that continued down his neck and disappeared into the collar of his shirt. His glasses were missing, his messy hair a viable rats' nest.

"Merope," he gasped.

"Harry, what happened to y—? !"

"Bucket!" He managed before he doubled over and was sick again.

Skittering back so that her feet were not splattered with bodily fluids, Merope whipped her wand and summoned a mixing bowl from the kitchen. The medic banished the slurry Harry had hacked up and skillfully hauled him over to the fainting couch, lying him down on it gently. The color of the couch clashed horribly with his ashen pallor, making his skin look yellow. Merope placed the bowl by his head and he turned and vomited a third time.

"What happened to you?" She exclaimed, her insides trembling. Her horn-rimmed glasses kept slipping down her nose.

Harry's tone was hoarse and bitter. "All in a day's work. Water?" The medic had already anticipated the request, and a conjured glass was pushed under his nose. He rinsed his mouth, shaking like an autumn leaf, and Merope noted that his hand, too, was red and agitated.

"A day's work? _A day's work_?" She repeated, incredulous.

The healer, looking abashed, interrupted. "Another doctor will be by in the morning to check on Mister Potter. If his condition worsens, Floo Saint Mungos immediately." The medic left awkwardly. Harry and Merope barely noticed.

"How can something like this be all in a day's work, Harry?" Merope pleaded, her eyes filling with tears.

"It just is." He said quietly.

She had never understood what he endured as a subject in the Department of Mysteries. Though that was, truthfully, because he had never told her, what she had imagined was a group of wizards poking at Harry with their wands and taking notes on impossibly long rolls of parchment. Not this. Never something like this.

"Papa!"

Both adults started, Harry immediately cringing at the twinge it brought to his damaged body. Merope's head twisted to look upon her son, who crawled toward them in obvious distress.

It was the first time he had called Harry "papa."

Though she was confused and embarrassed, Merope pushed the new endearment to the back of her mind as she scooped the child into her arms. Tom placed his chubby hands on the cushions, his deep eyes staring piercingly into Harry's green ones.

"Owwie," he said, reaching toward Harry's mottled cheek.

The man grabbed the child's hand before it could make contact with the tender wounds, however, and Harry's mouth twitched. "Yeah, kiddo. Big owwie."

"How often does this happen?" said Merope.

"Why?" said Tom.

Harry's eyes flicked between them. "I've got to protect you and your mum from the bad guys, don't I, Tommy? It's not usually this bad; it was worse during my first few months, but they only worked me this hard today because it's my birthday. Some physic scientific gibberish I don't get." Tom tried to crawl onto his chest and Harry hissed, recoiling.

"Tommy, don't," Merope chided gently.

Harry's smile was pained and forced, but no less genuine. "Sorry, kiddo, not right now. I'm beat up too bad."

Tom hiccupped, growing tearful. "_Papa_,"

"Hey, if you think this is bad, just wait until Hallowe'en."

Merope paled. "Wh-why Samhain?"

"I got here on All Hallows Eve," he said softly, "They were… enthusiastic last year, and I can't imagine this year being much different. I don't like Hallowe'en much. It and I have a… sketchy history together." His parents' murders. The mountain troll. The Goblet of Fire. "Don't get along very well with late May or early June either, for that matter." Killing Quirrel. The Chamber of Secrets. Cedric's death. Sirius' death. _Dumbledore's_ death. The Battle of Hogwarts.

Merope's voice shook. "Is… is there anything I can—?"

"Do?" He finished for her. "No. Saint Mungos did everything they could, and this… this is something I have to do. I don't have a choice."

Tears, fat and sparkling, rolled down her face. "Oh, _Harry_,"

"Don't cry," he implored her, "Look at the bright side: I get to stay home, undisturbed, for a whole week!"

But that only made her weep harder and so increased Tom's distress as well. He placed his tiny hands over her glasses as if that would halt the watery flow.

"Ma. Mama, shh."

It took her several minutes to gather herself. When she did, Merope ushered a fussy Tom to bed, the duration of which Harry was sick twice more, reduced to dry heaving. She returned to his side with blankets in hand and a pair of Harry's spare glasses. She didn't speak, a tight knot in her throat as good as rendered her unable, and she busied herself in making Harry more comfortable, removing his shoes and tie, tucking the blanket around his legs like she was wrapping up an adult-sized Tom. Several tears fell free.

"Merope," Harry began, and fell short when he realized he didn't know what to say.

"I'm sorry," she said, sniffling, "I should levitate you to your room or use a switching charm on your clothes or something, but-but…"

"You don't cast well when you're upset. It's fine. I understand." He said, reassuringly.

She nodded stiffly, but didn't meet his eyes. "I didn't like that mediwizard. He just came in, dropped you like a stone and left. It didn't seem very professional."

"The Department tips people very well. And there wasn't anything else he could do, really. Saint Mungos patched up what they could, and the rest has to heal naturally—which will be pretty quickly, actually, though I really won't be any Gilderoy Lockhart for a while."

Merope didn't know who that was; she grunted noncommittally, gaze fixated on a small hole in the blanket. A pregnant pause filled the space between them.

At last, she said: "I'm sorry about… about what Tom said. I know… that is, I'll talk to him about it in the morning. I-I hope he didn't upset you too much…"

"I'm not mad, Merope."

Finally, she lifted her eyes to his. "Y-you're not?"

He managed a small smile. "I'm flattered. It feels… weird, of course, but being a father figure to Tom? I don't mind that at all."

"R-really?"

"Really." A few more tears made themselves known, and he lifted his good hand to her cheek, winding his fingertips in her dark hair. "Wouldn't mind being an actual father to him, either. Though, I guess, it's kind of early to think along those lines. You know, since we're… we're… I don't even know."

She blushed, eyes wide, and covered his hand with her own. "I…" she swallowed thickly. "I guess, maybe we should… remedy that."

"Probably."

"I really like you, Harry." She said.

"I like you too, Merope." He said. Gently, he pulled her down to him and, unresistingly, she met his lips. It was sweet and soft and short and full of unrealized whimsy. The pull of muscle drew a flinch from him and they parted. Merope hid her face in his good shoulder and wept.

* * *

_To Be Continued..._

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_Notes: __The Riddle's servant's name, Ophelia, means "serpent" and "help." I don't really think of the Riddles as a family of jackasses, but as wealthy nobles, I have no doubt Tom Sr.'s affair would have had some serious consequences, not just on the family image as a whole, but probably on his psyche too, and I can't imagine him reacting well to any mention of Merope. There isn't actually any mention of how just long a line of Toms lil' Voldie comes from (I guess if you want to be strictly canon he's Tom the Third), but I'd figure I'd add one more because I _could_. I also think the consequences of Time Travel are highly downplayed; who wouldn't want to pick apart and dissect every aspect of such a person? I imagine even noble Dumbledore would be hard-pressed to keep his inquiries and hands to himself. I shudder to think of what would happen to a real time traveler if government scientists got a hold of him._


	3. A Marriage and The Midas Touch

Boy Who Lived

**_Frequently Asked Questions!_**_ (Warning: May be a bit ranty.)_

_**Q**: Did Harry come to the 1920's on purpose or by accident? How?_

_**A**: One of the things I try to do when I write is stimulate my readers' imaginations. I'm not going to tell you how Harry got to the early 20th century because I want you to use your imagination and formulate your own ideas on how it happened. I've read a dozen and more time-travel fics that go into all sorts of wild detail of how this-and-that time-travel works and I myself just say "hooplah! I'm not a astronomer or physicist, I don't know the first thing about the theory of time-travel, let's just leave it a mystery!" because I don't bullshit my way through anything, I research. __Personally, I like to think that his arrival was accidental._

_**Q**: Why would Harry let the Unspeakables do that to him?_

_**A**: The testing and experimentation that Harry undergoes is not voluntary. I cannot picture the event of time-travel being a quiet, unnoticeable affair, and my opinion of this solidified by the time Harry comes from (assumedly between 1998 and 2000, but then again you never know, yeah? He could've been an old man on his deathbed, for all I'm telling you!). Time travel didn't exist in those years (in reality), much less perfected, and the resulting jump MUST have produced a shockwave or signature of some sort that simply could not and would not go undetected. Without his status as The Boy Who Lived to protect him, and the fact he doesn't legally exist prior to 1980, as soon the Ministry got a hold of him his freedoms are lost until they choose to give it to him. As far as the DoM is concerned, Harry is an object, not a person, and even if he tried to escape they would certainly hunt him down, unwilling to let go of such a valuable subject (have any of you ever seen District 9? The situation is bit like Wilkus')._

**_Q_**_: Is Harry trying to stop Tom from becoming Voldemort?_

**_A_**_: Naturally! The opportunity is there; what good reason does he have to pass it up? Though he might miss it, Harry cannot go back to the future (he has neither the ability nor would the DoM _let_ him go), so there's no reason to try and secure its existence when there's a chance to exercise his "saving people thing." That's just the kind of person Harry is, yeah?_

* * *

_**Part 3—A Marriage and The Midas Touch**_

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* * *

_

He was moved to his bedroom proper by the medic the next morning; the mediwitch, Penelope Cillan, said that Harry's recovery had started off well, and that she would be by every morning for the rest of the week. Harry slept most of the day away, but when he was awake he paid acute attention to Tom—the infant refused to leave Harry's bedside, descending into inconsolable hysterics if his mother tried to carry him out of the room—and exchanged wordless, meaningful glances with Merope. She hadn't realized one could flirt so intimately with body language alone.

Harry's appearance got worse before it got better, the red skin transforming into hideous purple and yellow patches that faded slowly. On the third day, he developed a fever, and though the mediwitch had said to expect it, Merope fretted terribly over it, wrapping him in several layers of blankets and pressing stolen kisses to his sweaty brow while he slept. Once, her soft touch woke him, and he pulled her into a real kiss before she could scamper away. Another time, whilst reading to Tom, she accidentally fell asleep from her place on the edge of the bed, and woke up cradled in Harry's good arm, his green eyes focused intensely on her, her son snoozing heavily in her lap. By day six his pain had, for the most part, gone and he was able to get up and move around the house again, though Tom remained firmly latched onto him. On day seven, his bruises finally started to regain their healthy color, and Harry and Merope shared a long, intimate kiss in front of the fireplace.

It felt like all too soon when Harry had to go back to his routine, a routine that deceivingly imitated a normal man's workday when Harry was anything but normal. Little Thomas was inconsolable, and there was nothing Merope could do but let the child cry himself to exhaustion.

The following months drifted by. Thomas continued to develop at an amazing rate for a child not yet a year old; he was bright and active and intelligent. Harry and Merope's relationship slowly grew until she was automatically kissing him whenever she greeted him or bid him goodbye. She kissed him first thing in the morning when he was still cooking breakfast; she kissed him when he left home for the Ministry and his mouth still tasted of coffee; she kissed him when he arrived back at home—sometimes a bit worse for wear, but most often fine; she kissed him in the hall in the evenings when they parted for their own bedrooms and went to bed. Sometimes they snogged rather passionately—in the hall, in the kitchen, in the living room with the radio playing—and when they came back to their senses found themselves with mussed hair and wrinkled clothes and loose buttons and flushed cheeks, and she learned the sweetness of the Eskimo Kiss.

The heat of summer evaporated into fall and Halloween proved to not be as bad as Harry had said. It was worse. He spent ten days in St. Mungos—four of those in a coma—and another two weeks recovering at home at Holly Copse Cottage. Those ten days were awful; as Merope was not family, she was not granted permission to see him, and knowing that he was suffering and that she could do nothing to alleviate his pain was torturous to her. She and Tom both felt his absence acutely. It was a great relief to have him home, even if he was still recovering from his injuries, and in his joy Thomas took his first steps on two legs.

The winter solstice proved to be an unpleasant time for Harry as well, though it was nowhere as near as terrible as All Hallows Eve, and only a little bit worse than the injuries he had endured on his birthday. As such, Christmas was a very mellow affair, and was mostly celebrated for Thomas' sake, though the gifts he received were few as his first birthday was a week away, and at a single year old, he had little use for mountains of toys, and even less use for ones that couldn't teach him anything. He spoke fluently and in complete sentences, with complete thoughts.

December 31st brought more than Tom's first birthday, however. As the night deepened, the hours ticking closer and closer to midnight, the two snuggled close to one another on the sofa, sipping champagne.

"Happy New Year, Merope. We have known each other for exactly one year now."

She smiled up at him and tapped her champagne flute against his. "It's been the best year of my life. Here's to an even better one."

"I definitely intend to make sure it's a better one." Harry said. He bit his lower lip in an uncharacteristic show of nervousness, and plucked something out from under one of the throw pillows. "There's probably… well, _definitely_… a more, uh, formal way to do this, but I'm not really one for formalities and I know you're not one for formalities either, so, um,"

She didn't interrupt, only nudged his chin to the side so that he would meet her eyes. "Harry."

His eyes were bright and full, seemingly too large through his round glasses. "Merope, I could never give you another child; the Department is… well, it goes without saying, and if I were to have a blood-child they would definitely want to get their greasy hands on it. But-but regardless, I want to marry you."

He lifted his hand, and her gaze darted down to the simple gold band he held between his thumb and forefinger. Her hands flew to her mouth, horn-rimmed glasses hanging on by the tip of her nose.

"Will you be my wife?"

She didn't need words to answer. She just kissed him.

The cuckoo clock cuckooed midnight. The radio spokesperson cheered with his fellow-workers. Their champagne glasses fell, forgotten, from their hands and soaked the carpet—it would leave a stain that would remain for years to come, a fond reminder.

He had no family or friends to invite, and neither did she; nor was either of them fond of the idea of a big, lacy, flower-covered ceremony. So, they kept it simple. He dressed in pale gold, and she in off-white, and they exchanged vows before a justice of the peace, with Carrie Taker and Penelope Cillan as their two witnesses. Thomas held their rings for them, clad in a silvery-grey child's dress. They were married on the 22nd of January, 1928, and Merope and Thomas Marvolo Gaunt became Merope and Thomas Marvolo Potter.

Life at home did not change drastically overnight; there was no tropic honeymoon; Merope retained her bedroom, though she and Harry slept beside one another more often than not—though not always; it wasn't an easy transition, getting use to another body in one's bed, after all, and, given the times, two people in one bed was downright scandalous in the public's eye—and partook of more daring kisses, more intimate caresses, fleeting, flirtatious pinches and tickles. Merope lost her blushing, "modern woman" mindset quickly, and quite happily.

Thomas continued to grow, always alert, always learning. His Lincoln Logs and Tinker Toys and lettered wooden blocks could not hold his attention forever, however; he was not a child that thrived on repetition. Merope's afternoon lessons with her tutor, Mr. Brian E. Manning, extended to include her infant son, if only minimally: Basic numbers, the alphabet, shapes, a book illustrating various animals from around the world, both magical and mundane. In his age, his rate of learning was not as rapid as that of a first grade-age child learning the same basics, but for his age he was absolutely brilliant and he was able to read the simplest children's books by his 20th month. He drew pages of indecipherable scribbles—still several years away from developing anything but the most basic hand-eye coordination, no matter how large his brain—but Merope cherished them like they were works of art comparable to Monet.

During Thomas' third year they ventured to the town for a summer picnic. Their ventures outside of the Holly Copse Cottage properties were far between and thus they were not as close with their neighbors in Middleton as they would have liked, though they were familiar enough faces to the residents.

They set up a blanket and basket at the public park and ate and chatted with the other parents, who complemented and praised Tom's mature speech. Tom was a bit awkward around the other children, but once the other kids decided that Tom wasn't going to try and take the title of King of the Monkey Bars, they happily included him in their games. But, as children are wont to detect, Tom gradually found himself excluded from the group for being odd, and he wandered off to entertain himself.

Harry and Merope endured a long minute of panic when they realized that their son was nowhere within their direct line of sight. It was Merope who found him, crouched beside a tree, hissing.

"_Leave me alone, stupid human_!"

Her breath hitched in her throat, eyes wide as she recognized the inborn language she hadn't heard in years. The snake her son was innocently harassing was growing more and more irked by the second, and without warning she swooped down on Tom and yanked him into her arms.

"Tommy, _no_!"

The child instantly burst into wailing tears.

The snake, which she could now see was a harmless smooth snake instead of the adder she had initially taken it for, was even further irritated by her son's crying.

"_Go away_!" It hissed.

"_I'm sorry for the disturbance_," she hissed back. The language fell from her tongue easily, more natural to her than breathing, but with it came a rush of unpleasant memories. She fought the burning behind her eyes as she tried to soothe Tom, who grew more upset the further away she walked from the tree and snake.

"Noo! Snakey! I want to talk to the snake, Mama!" he sobbed, his face crinkled and red.

She rubbed his back while he clutched at her shoulder and neck. "I'm sorry, baby."

"Nooo…"

Having heard his son's cries, Harry was by Merope's side quickly. He laid a loving hand on Tom's head, running his fingers through the child's dark hair.

"What happened?" he asked.

"He was pestering a smooth snake. It was upset. I thought it was an adder."

Harry nodded, his face understanding but somehow grim, and he kissed them both and told Merope to go ahead and go to the car while he ran back and got their things.

The Phaeton had long since been replaced, with a Mercedes Benz SS Erdman this year—at least that's what Harry said it was called. Though stylish, neither Merope nor Harry could say they were particularly fond of the vehicle, as it wasn't a good fit to those with children, and Tom settled awkwardly and wetly in her lap, rubbing at his eyes, nearly hyperventilating in his distress. Harry caught up with them a couple of minutes later and stowed the basket and blanket away. Tom was still weeping in his mother's lap, and she wiped a handkerchief over his cheeks and chin while she cooed soothingly, but he continued crying most of the drive home, and finally fell asleep in Merope's lap.

"I think it's time we added a pet to the family." Harry said once Merope had laid her sleeping toddler in his bed.

She looked up at him, brushing a fallen strand of hair out of her face. "A snake?" she asked softly.

To her relief, Harry shook his head. "No, snakes kill to eat, and I don't want Tommy exposed to that yet. It…" he trailed off, biting his lip and Merope realized that was somehow related to the man her son could have become. Encouragingly, she placed a gentle hand on her husband's arm and was given a smile in return.

"I was actually thinking of a parrot of some sort," he admitted, "They're the smartest kind of birds. Tommy could teach it to talk and solve puzzles. They could learn together. It would be like having two toddlers, though, biting and everything; just one of them would have feathers and be thirty-five centimeters high."

Merope's red-painted lips curved in a smile and she giggled. "That would be just fine, Harry. I think Tommy needs a more consistent friend, someone his own age to interact with. Merlin knows my brother wasn't very good to me, and I know your cousin wasn't good to you either, but for Tommy…"

"I know." He said, squeezing her hand tightly. She kissed him.

As they knew he would be, Tom was surly and sulky when he awoke, not understanding why he had been so abruptly snatched away from the smooth snake. The promise of a pet cheered him up considerably, but his bitterness was not instantaneously expelled from his mind. His usual happy demeanor was only restored once Merope actually took him to Diagon Alley's pet store. Though they left without an animal, Merope did go home a great deal more informed than she had been when she entered the shop.

They finally decided on a Gold African Grey Parrot. It was a sub-species of the African Grey Parrot not known to the mundane world, but not a true magical species. It was bred for beauty—thus the yellow feathers instead of the species typical grey—and was more solid of mind than the rest of its species, making it more adaptable to changes in its environment and less prone to feather picking when under stress. As such, Harry and Merope decided against getting a new hatchling and purchased a bird a few months old.

Thomas was up and over cloud nine with the new addition: a clumsy ball of bronze fluff. Since there was more than enough rooms, the parrot was given a bedroom all to itself, and Thomas spent several excited hours telling Merope and Harry what sorts of plants to put in and where to place them and listing toys. Of course, a great deal of his "suggestions" were turned down—a parrot had no use for matchbox cars or a full sized bed, after all—but they managed to come up with an arrangement that satisfied him. Tom named the bird Midas and the two spent hours together; the only other thing that had ever captured the boy's attention so thoroughly were stories. In fact, he read to Midas often, and made sure to dictate what he was going to do before he did it when the bird was present. Spoken word did not keep birds as well entertained as little boys, however, and Harry made sure that Tom spent just as much time playing games—Midas' favorites proved to be fetching a pickle ball and finding hidden, brightly colored pompoms. A makeshift sort of tea party became a surprising routine, though in the end it was always Merope or Harry that ended up making sure that the young bird was properly fed.

Eventually, Midas entered the "Terrible Two" age that Tom himself had not yet outgrown, but while Thomas and Harry suffered many a bitten finger, Merope surprised them by being able to handle the parrot's attitude like a professional. It was rooted in fear and insecurity, instead of the need to be independent like Tom's tantrums were. Many a snake had acted the same way when she had still been with Marvolo and Morfin, she said, and thus been "disposed of" most inhumanely.

His affection for Midas somewhat dampened by the birds consistent biting, Tom sought out a new hobby and left Midas to his mother. He spent several days pouring over books and testing new waters, but finally decided on taking up piano after hearing the Maple Leaf Rag on the radio one evening. He took to his piano lessons like a duck to water, like he was born to it. A genius, his mentor, Viola Keys, said, and Merope glowed with pride. Harry did as well, but, as always, his pride in his stepson was accompanied by a smidge of worry that could never quite be removed. Midas often perched on the piano and whistled along, eventually growing to sing along.

Though Middleton was an hour away by car, Thomas started going to primary school with the muggle children once he was old enough. It was important for him to interact with others his own age, they knew, and the need to put a few centimeters of distance between the adults and the child quickly became apparent with the tantrums that began to flare up whenever Harry or Merope tried to leave him. Thomas' teachers had a bit of a difficult time with him when got upset like that. Separation anxieties aside, Tom excelled in all his classes and it wasn't long before the principal gave Tom a special schedule: 5th year Literature and English; 4th year Maths; 2nd year Science; 3rd year History.

Inevitably, however, making friends proved difficult for Thomas. Some of the other children were jealous of his intelligence; others just found him odd. Surprisingly, his magic was the least of his problems; accidental magic incidents were few and far between, and teachers thought his descriptions of magical animals merely the product of a creative mind—someone who would do well as a mythology professor or archaeologist someday, perhaps. But he never brought home any friends, at recess and lunch he kept to himself; the teachers, too impressed by his flawless schoolwork, didn't see his crippling social skills, didn't see when Tom got pushed off the swing set, didn't think anything of him getting picked last for rugby and football. Merope, too, missed those things, as she had not had a formal education herself and not experienced the ridicule of school children, their actions made so much crueler for the simple fact that they were innocent.

But Harry noticed, and it alit in him a sharp ache.

"Tommy,"

Tom looked up from the book he was reading, Huckleberry Finn, and sat up straighter in his bed, his skin golden in the lamplight. "Papa."

"Hello, Papa," Midas echoed from his perch on Tom's shoulder.

Harry smiled thinly, one hand on the doorframe. "Do you mind if I come in?"

"Sure," the boy said. He turned, swinging his long legs over the edge of the bed and set a bookmark in place. Though he was only eight years old, it could already be gleaned that Tom would grow up into a stunningly handsome man; he was a beautiful child, his skin light and fair, his hair dark and parted pristinely, he spoke and carried himself like an accomplished adult would. But Harry never forgot that no matter Tom's intelligence, no matter his confidence, he was still just a little boy.

The bespectacled time traveler sat down beside his son, the bedsprings giving a little shriek of protest at the weight. Harry pulled Tom into his lap and hugged him. Midas hopped onto Tom's head to avoid the tangle of arms.

"You're unhappy with school." Harry began, once Tom pulled away.

To Tom's credit, not a mite of surprise showed on his face, though he stiffened minutely. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Really? I think you do, Tommy."

Tom looked away, stubbornly refusing to meet his father's too-knowing green eyes. "School is fine, Papa. I'm in 6th year maths now, even, and…"

"Perhaps I should have phrased it differently," Harry interrupted, ignoring his son's irritated glare, "I think there's a problem with the other _kids_ at school."

Tom seemed to struggle for a moment, then, finally, wilted entirely. His dark eyes lowered to the floor, and his usually straight posture slumped. "I… yeah. I mean… yeah."

Harry sighed and pulled the boy into another embrace, resting his chin on Tom's head. "I'm sorry, Tommy."

"They hate me," he said, picking at the lint on Harry's jumper, "I don't know why."

"They don't understand why you're special, Tommy. They don't even know that they're being mean to you."

"They're not mean. Well, they are, but not really. They just… they just…"

"Ignore you?" Harry suggested.

"Yeah." Tom said softly. "They pretend I don't exist, unless I have something they want. Then they're mean to me."

Harry ran his fingers soothingly through his son's hair. "Primary school children are mean. You know how I was raised with my aunt and uncle and cousin?"

"Yes."

"Well, they were mean to me when I was your age too. They were scared of my magic, though Dudley didn't know I was a wizard until my Hogwarts letter came. But he picked on me at school too, and he and his friends would chase me around and if they caught me they would beat me up. They called it 'Harry Hunting.'"

"The other kids don't chase me around and beat me up, Papa."

"Does that make the feelings any different, do you think?"

Tom thought on that for a moment. Then, "No, it doesn't. It just makes it hurt outside as well as inside." They were silent for a short while; Harry could tell that Tom was struggling with a confession of some sort.

"A boy in my maths class, Adam, says that you and Mum and I… he says that we're going to go to Hell because we don't go to church."

There it was. Harry felt his stomach clench unpleasantly. He had never before put too much thought into religion, in the 80's and 90's visiting the local church every Sunday was not a strict social requirement. There was nothing wrong with a family that never attended church, the 60's had loosened that image and made religion more of a casually private thing. Religion in the 1930's was not so relaxed, at least not in the muggle world, and he should have realized that, by enrolling him in a muggle school, Tom would have been exposed to that. Wizards in general didn't focus overmuch on the subject of religion, probably because so many old gods were, in truth, not gods at all.

"Do you think that's true?" Harry asked.

"Well… no."

"Then why do you care what this Adam boy says?"

Tom made a frustrated noise. "I don't! I don't, but…"

"But, it hurts anyway." Harry finished.

"Yeah… yeah." His voice broke and he sniffled despairingly. Harry held him close and let Tom bury his face in the crook of his neck.

"I love you." Midas said, by now having dropped down to Tom's lap. Harry smiled and he felt Tom chuckle weakly.

"Love you too, Midas." The boy mumbled.

"I love you too, Tommy, don't ever forget that." Harry said. "You can talk to me about anything. I can't guarantee that I'll always be able to help, but I'll do my best. I know how hard school can be, so if you ever wake up in the morning and feel like you really, really don't want to go, tell me or your Mum and you can stay home, okay?"

Tom's fingers pressed fiercely into Harry's back. "You promise?"

"Yes. Well, as long as you can keep up with your homework, but somehow I don't think that will be a problem." He added teasingly.

Tom nodded and relinquished his hold on Harry, wiping at his eyes. "Thank you, Papa."

Harry kissed the top of his head. "What else are fathers for?"

Things seemed to improve for Tom after that, but there was no denying that he was home much more often than he had been before. Given how far ahead of his age group he was, keeping up in class proved easy enough. Harry would come home through the fireplace and would hug Tom and maneuver around Midas to kiss Merope before starting dinner.

* * *

_To Be Continued..._

_

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_

_Notes: I notice that fanfiction writers who delve into Riddle's era often forget what is the standard there; husbands and wives did not share a bed, even if they shared a bedroom; it was downright unheard of. Harry and Merope living together without being married was even more unheard of, and, of course, downright scandalous. Of course, as an 80's baby, Harry is used to a totally different standard and has every intention of getting Merope "up-to-date." (wink)_

_Britain only hosts three snake species. The adders are the only poisonous species. The others are the smooth snakes, which are the least common ones on the isles, but imitate the adder's pattern and are often mistaken for them, and the grass snakes which are most often found in watery places like swamps and slews. _

_Midas the Parrot is named for the king in the Greek myth The Golden Touch, whose touch turns anything and everything to gold. _

_I don't think Tom's school schedule is _too_ bizarre; I think, if he'd had the tools when he was young, he would have excelled by leaps and bounds in elementary/primary, and in the former half of the 20th century, school standards were by no means the same as the standards that the latter half upheld (no calculators!). JKR described Hermione as a "borderline genius," and so I think it isn't unreasonable to think Tom an actual genius. You might wonder why Tom didn't go to Kindergarten/Nursery School, well that's because that didn't exist in those days. Not for a couple more decades, actually, and not mandatory for a few more._


	4. Hogwarts and Heartbreaking Holidays

Boy Who Lived

* * *

_**Part 4—Hogwarts and Heartbreaking Holidays**_

_

* * *

_

Harry rarely ever came home from the Department of Mysteries battered and broken anymore. Halloween, of course, was always unpleasant, and the solstices had a tendency to be so as well, but that was not entirely unexpected. After so many years, the Department had little left to squeeze out of him, and so had ended up making him something of a pseudo-Unspeakable.

Merope was always grateful for Harry's consistent good health. The years had been good to her and she loved her husband and son as deeply as she had dreamed in her childhood. Like any couple, she and Harry had their sticky spots and road bumps, but that was normal, and the life he had given her was as close to happily ever after as any woman could wish for. Some days she still woke up half-expecting to find herself back in her father's house or in a poor house, and on those days she would run her fingers over the wool bed sheets and Harry's flesh, not quite touching, as if he were a image in a bubble that would pop and dissolve away in a sudden shimmer if she wasn't careful enough. Then he would wake up and kiss her firmly and she would be reminded that _this was real_.

Occasionally, she woke up to calloused fingertips drifting feather-light over her skin and she would open her eyes and see the same expression on Harry's face that she imagined she sometimes had: like he was afraid that she was a dream and he was all too close to waking up. As if he was scared that a gaping hole would come into existence right under him and suck him down and spit him out back to the time he came from. So she would lean over and kiss him and give herself to him and remind him that _this was real_.

Her son was the most wonderful little boy in the whole world, in her humble opinion. On rare occasions it was somewhat painful to look at him and see his father's face—Tom Riddle's face—but she was able to push through it because her son was _so much better_ than that man. Thomas was a genius and he was kind and thoughtful and lovely from the ends of his toenails to the tips of his hair.

There was no human expression to describe how proud she felt of Tom the day his Hogwarts letter arrived and he sat on the living room couch and read it to his parents, his face simply _glowing_ with joy. Merope had descended on him with a watery squeal and they spun around the room for Merlin knew how long, just clinging to each other. Harry hugged his son tightly and the three of them Flooed to London and had dinner at an Indian restaurant—Tom's favorite.

They were no strangers to Diagon Alley, but there was just something absolutely _novel_ about visiting it with Hogwarts in mind, like they were seeing it for the first time all over again. Their library underwent an enormous growth spurt and Harry mercilessly teased that Tom was even more of a bookworm than his old friend, Hermione Granger. Tom had flushed so red—both flattered and embarrassed—that it was something of a surprise that steam didn't shoot out of his ears.

The last couple of weeks before September 1st passed by in a whirlwind of emotion and color and activity. They slipped between platforms 9 and 10 and Tom and Merope gaped, breathless, at the sight of the Hogwarts Express. Harry simply chuckled and heaved Thomas' trunk on board. It had taken some effort on Merope's part not to cry; she'd thought she was prepared for this, for letting him go, but now she was thinking that she would never be ready.

Tom vanished for a few moments on the train before his face reappeared behind a window. He opened it quickly and stuck an arm out.

"I'll make you guys proud!"

Harry grinned. "No need, Tom; we're already proud of you!"

The train bellowed and with a sharp hiss the polished wheels began to turn. Merope finally caved and pressed a handkerchief to her cheeks.

"We love you, Tommy!"

"I love you too, Mum! I love you, Papa! I'll see you at Christmas!"

She snorted into her handkerchief. Christmas? Tom looked like it was _already_ Christmas. "Write when you can!"

"Every week, Mum!" he exclaimed, hand cupped around his mouth.

"And after your Sorting too!"

His reply was lost in the din of the crowd and Harry and Merope stood and waved until they couldn't see the train anymore. The masses had vanished by then, with only the Potters and a couple other families remaining by the tracks. Merope was, not unexpectedly, rather melancholy for the rest of the day and when Harry found her staring wistfully into empty space he would pull her to him and simply hold her close. Talking about all the things they could do—and _would_ do, he added wickedly—without a kid in the house set her cheeks aflame.

Thomas' first letter home arrived the next morning in the talons of one of the school's owls.

.

_1 September 1938_

_Dear Mum and Papa,_

_Hogwarts is every bit as wonderful as you said, Papa; it's amazing. What was that you said about having to fight a troll, though, huh? That wasn't funny! The Sorting Hat placed me in Slytherin as soon as it touched my head. I was very surprised, as I don't think of myself as particularly ambitious or cunning. I was rather hoping for Ravenclaw, to be perfectly honest, so I'm a little disappointed, but I'm sure the Hat made the right decision. It has been sorting students for hundreds of years, after all, though on second thought that makes me concerned that it might just be senile._

_Head Girl this year is a Slytherin named Dorea Black. She's very pretty and seems nice, if rather intimidating. I've heard that she's engaged to an alumni named Charlus Potter. Are we related to the Potters, Papa? Miss Black and a couple other students asked me and I told them that I didn't know._

_Some issues have come up already. I have four dorm-mates and they are concerned about my wizarding heritage, since I couldn't confirm if I'm related to Charlus Potter. One of them asked if I was a "Mudblood." I told them that both my parents were magical, if that was what they were asking, and they let the subject drop after that. Needless to say, however, I'm a bit concerned about this. "Mudblood" is obviously not a complimentary word, and I didn't feel like it would be a good move to ask my Housemates about it openly. Some clarification on the subject would be much appreciated._

_My Head of House is a man named Horace Slughorn. He teaches Potions and comes off as rather eccentric. However, he is not nearly as eccentric as the Griffindor Head of House, Deputy Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, seems to be. I have never seen anyone dressed so bizarrely! I am told that he teaches Transfiguration. I get the feeling that his class will probably be a lot of fun; he seems like that type of person. The other Slytherins don't seem to like the Griffindor House in general. I believe it is some sort of misplaced rivalry dating back to Godric Griffindor and Salazar Slytherin's broken friendship. I don't see what the big deal is, but I suppose it is only a matter of time. I don't intend to let it get in the way of me interacting with students in other Houses._

_I miss you already. It is going to be strange sharing a room with other people and not having Midas wake me up in the mornings like he usually does. I hope he doesn't get too possessive of you with me being gone, Mum, he drives Papa spare on a good day!_

_Your son,_

_Thomas Marvolo Potter_

_P. S. The Slytherin dormitory's serpent décor has been whispering at me ever since I arrived. Is that normal?_

_._

Ah, the questions. Questions Merope and Harry knew would be asked sooner or later. They hadn't quite expected them to pop up so fast, though. Knowing that the letter wouldn't make it to Thomas' hands until breakfast the next morning, Harry took his time composing a reply.

.

_2 September 1938_

_Dear Tom,_

_Congratulations on being Sorted into Slytherin! Slytherin has something of a dark reputation, but I know that you will excel there. I'm not sorry for not telling you that all you had to do was have an old hat placed on your head; it's tradition!_

_I wish I could say I was surprised by your Housemates' reactions, but in truth I have been expecting it. You are not especially closely related to the Potters, Thomas, but your lineage and theirs can be traced back to a common ancestor._

_I believe you were right not to ask your Housemates about the M-word. "Mudblood," Tom, is a very cruel slang term to refer to a witch or wizard who has muggle parents. Some "pureblood" families—those who come from generations and generations of witches and wizards and have no muggle ancestry (that they will admit to)—believe that muggle-borns have no place in our society and should not be allowed to go to school at Hogwarts. Salazar Slytherin adopted that viewpoint at some point in his life, and so Slytherins are now known somewhat notoriously for sharing that attitude. In my personal opinion, I think it's just a small portion of Slytherins that actually agree with it, but it would be wise to keep your head down concerning that subject; the Blacks are well known for their strong views on blood purity._

_You are not muggle-born, Thomas. Your mother and I, however, do believe that muggle-born witches and wizards have just as much right to a magical education and lifestyle as any "pureblood." For this opinion, we may be labeled as "blood traitors."_

_Professor Dumbledore is definitely a unique man. I didn't learn from him myself, but I have no doubt he will be an excellent teacher. Slughorn was never my favorite teacher, but he knows his craft well. He has an eye for talent and, if you manage to impress him—and we have little doubt that you will—he will probably try to "collect" you into his club, which is called the "Slug Club." It is made up of Hogwarts' brightest and best-connected; kids that he thinks will be going places and making big discoveries after they graduate. It's kind of annoying._

_As for the snakes talking to you: keep that a secret, Tom. You are a Parselmouth, as are your mother and I. It is not a common gift and people often take it as a bad omen, even though it is no different than any other inborn talent. If you make a friend that you feel you can trust to tell, you may, but this ability is one that is best kept under wraps at present._

_Your mother and I miss you. Midas is unbearable; I haven't been able to get close to your mum all morning without getting pecked at! What do you think of me getting him charmed like a postage owl so that he can take letters to you? I think the oversized snitch could use the exercise._

_All My Love,_

_Papa_

_P. S. I almost forgot. Mum says to make sure you wear clean underwear. Midas says hello._

_._

Numerous letters were written and read during the following weeks. As promised, Tom wrote every weekend and through his letters Harry and Merope watched from a distance as he blossomed and grew. After some effort he came to be on friendly terms with his roommates: Lestrange, Avery, Rosier, and Mulciber, despite his obscure heritage. There wasn't much time in a first year's schedule to be social with their neighboring Houses, but Thomas was no ordinary first year and he sometimes spoke of a quiet, book-centric sixth year, Miranda Goshawk, who could always be found in the far corner of the library, and he spoke highly of a Griffindor girl who was a year above him, Minerva McGonagall. Less pleasant things were said about Housemate Walburga Black and Cornelius Fudge and a set of twins belonging to the Hitchens family. Septimus and Sextus Weasley were the bane of every teacher for their trickster ways and had charmed every House banner sans Griffindor's to be bright orange and black on Hallowe'en.

No more was spoken of blood purity or Parseltongue in the letters, but there was an unspoken promise of '_we will talk about this for sure_.'

Christmas break couldn't come soon enough for Harry and Merope. Though they originally planned on eating in London after picking Tom up from the train station, but at their son's insistence, his cheeks and nose red with the winter chill, Harry cooked instead. Midas accosted Tom shortly after walking in the front door and after dinner they sat in the living room with the radio on and were happy. Tom kept himself buried deep under Merope's arm, ear pressed to her heartbeat while she stroked his hair and planted kisses on his forehead whenever she felt compelled.

The house was not decorated for the season yet; they'd waited for Tom to come home so that they could all do it together. Harry and Tom hiked out into the woods to cut down a tree while Merope dug the lights and ornaments out of the attic. By the time they made it back to the cottage their faces were red and as Tom put down his hood Harry stuffed a handful of snow down the back of the adolescent's coat.

"Ah! Papaaaa!" He shrieked, dancing in the entryway as he tried to grab at the snow melting down his spine.

Harry bent double with laughter.

"It's not funny! Ahh! Cold! Cold! Co-_old_!"

"All this shouting and stomping about; what's happened?" Merope asked, poking her head out of the kitchen. The house was rich with the smell of lamb and potatoes—undoubtedly there was a shepherd's pie in the oven.

"_He_ put _snow_ down my _shirt_! I can't get it out!" Tom exclaimed, scrabbling at his back.

Merope sighed good-naturedly. "I'll get it, Tommy." She moved with a practiced ease that only a mother could possess, stripping Thomas of his coat and yanking his tucked shirt out of his pants. The slush dropped to the floor without further complaint and rapidly melted. Thomas sagged with relief.

"Not funny!" He scowled at his still-chuckling parents.

"Yes, it was!" Harry said.

Merope snorted and yanked Harry out of the doorway so that she could close the door. "Okay, okay, boys. Tom, why don't you get out of that wet shirt? I'll talk to your father."

Now it was Tom's turn to laugh.

The shepherds' pie was as delicious as it ever was. Tom fidgeted while they cleared the table and set the dishes in the sink, hating that he was about to sour the atmosphere.

"Mum? Papa?"

They looked over at him.

"Can I ask you guys something?"

Merope tilted her head to the side slightly, wiping her hands on a towel. "Of course, Tom. What is it?"

"I know this kind of thing doesn't matter, not really, but nevertheless I want to know." Tom swallowed and took a slow, calming breath. "What is my blood status?"

As he knew it would, the atmosphere in the house sobered instantly. Tom found himself half-wishing he'd just kept his curiosity to himself. For a moment, Harry and Merope exchanged a long look full of apprehension and what seemed to be defeat. Then Harry sighed and walked to the other side of the table to sling an arm around Thomas' shoulders.

"You are a half-blood, Tom."

"Oh. So which of you is…?"

Harry held up a hand, and Tom fell silent, confused and wondering where the worried throb in his chest was coming from.

"I think we should all sit down for this." Harry said softly.

Though he was puzzled, Tom nodded and they all migrated to the living room. Harry took up residence in his usual chair, while Merope joined her son on the couch, holding his hand tight. Tom looked up at her questioningly.

"What's…" he swallowed and found the words stuck in his throat.

Merope's gaze was filled with nothing but love. "You father and I knew that you would ask that question one day."

Harry's elbows were on his knees, hands clasped under his chin. "You are a half-blood, Tommy, and so am I; but Merope is a pureblood witch."

Tom's dark eyebrows furrowed, tilted upward just the slightest bit. "I… I don't understand."

Merope inhaled deeply, her eyes closing as the echoes of old pains washed over her. "The first thing you have to understand… is that my family weren't nice people. Your grandmother died when I was very small, but your grandfather and uncle were very, very purist. They hated muggles and muggle-borns and half-bloods very much. Your grandfather—my father did not love me; he only cared about the blood in my veins, my 'pure' ancestry, and he got violent very quickly. Always shouting." Her breath trembled and though Tom didn't understand where the story was going, he squeezed her hand reassuringly. She smiled and squeezed back.

"There was nothing I wanted more than to run away forever. There was a man in the village that I took a strong fancy to; he was handsome, wealthy; at the time, to me, he was the sun and the sky. My brother, Morfin, caught me looking at him once and hexed him."

Tom's eyes darted to his father. Harry's bright eyes were pained and he mouthed _I love you, Thomas_.

Merope continued. "The Ministry found out, of course, and an Auror came to our house to tell us that Morfin had to go in to court. Father didn't like that. And then Morfin… Morfin purposely… he let it slip that I was in love with a muggle. He liked that even less." Her voice dropped to a whisper and understanding slowly made its way across Tom's face, which paled. "Father almost killed me that day, but the Auror came back with others and my brother and father were sent to Azkaban and I haven't seen them since.

"I was free for the first time in my life, free to go wherever I wanted, to do what I wished. But I knew that would only last so long if I was by myself; my father had a much shorter jail sentence than my brother and I couldn't make it far in the world on my own. I'm a woman; it just wasn't done.

"It was a very hot summer day. The man who was the object of my affection was out on his horse. It wasn't terribly difficult to convince him to take a drink of water that I'd mickey'd with amortentia."

Thomas looked stricken.

"We married within the month and rented a small house in London. It wasn't real love, but I was happy and I came to love him very, very much. I'd hoped that, despite being drugged, he'd come to care for me truly too. So, I stopped giving him the amortentia." Tears began falling from her eyes in earnest. "I was wrong. I told him I was pregnant with his child, hoping he would stay for the baby, at least. He left anyway. I found myself homeless and penniless faster than I could have imagined. I had to beg and pickpocket. I was arrested by the muggle police a couple of times for panhandling." Thomas' grip on her fingers was so strong she could feel her bones grinding together.

"By the time I went into labor, I was very weak. It was very cold and I was bleeding out. Purebloods… most of us are hemophiliacs. Our blood doesn't clot, and if we aren't given the proper potions, we can bleed to death from small injuries—That's where the term 'mudblood' comes from, you see. A girl a little younger than me stumbled into me and took me to the orphanage where she lived and worked. I gave birth to you there, Tommy. I thought I was going to die."

He made a vague sound deep in his throat. He didn't cry, but his hands shook.

"But then… then Harry showed up. I had just about given up on living. I had nothing to give you, Tommy, not a roof to put over your head or money to buy food, I thought it would be best if I let myself slip away and let you grow up in the orphanage. Harry convinced me otherwise. He saved me; he saved us both; took us in out of the goodness of his heart, and we fell in love. Harry proposed on your first birthday. You know the rest, of course."

So.

That was why.

Harry wasn't his real father.

The air sitting in Thomas' lungs swelled and thickened, forming a block in his throat. The revelation was so unexpected. He knew that his parents had to have had a good reason to keep quiet about his blood status, but to discover that Harry was, in truth, his stepfather?

He never would have guessed. Not in a hundred years.

He stood, his hand pressing into his temple, eyes lowered. "I-I'm going to bed. I need to… think." He abandoned asking about Parseltongue; he didn't think he wanted to know.

He didn't see something in Harry's expression break.

The following days were awkward for Merope, to say the least. Thomas was quieter than ever, buried so deeply in thought that he drifted around the house like a ghost. Harry avoided his son at every turn he could, insecure and not wanting to hear words of rejection from Tom's mouth. Caught between them—a husband that was mourning what he hadn't yet lost; a son who seemed too far away to call back—Merope felt helpless.

Thomas finally pulled out of himself and noticed Harry's behavior on Christmas Eve. Tom came down for dinner and Harry slunk away shortly after Tom set foot in the kitchen. His dark eyes settled on his mother's back, noting that her shoulders were slumped as she picked at her plate, looking defeated.

"What's wrong with Papa?"

Merope looked up at him and scratched her cheek, her fingers sliding across her bottom lip. "He's scared, Tommy."

Tom frowned. "Scared? But Papa's not scared of anything."

"Yes, he is." She said softly. "He's scared that you don't want him as a father anymore."

Tom's mouth dropped open. "W-what?" His hands gripped the table so harshly his knuckles were ashen, his voice tinged with horror. "How could-how could-how could he think…?"

"You've been wrapped up in your thoughts for the past few days; which is completely understandable, of course, but even grown-ups get insecure sometimes, including Harry. Especially Harry."

He _had_ been wrapped up in himself, hadn't he? Tom had paid no attention at all to his surroundings, withdrawing into his mind as he let the shocking revelation of his heritage sink in. But to think of rejecting Harry's status as his father—Unthinkable! He knew and wanted no other father figure in his life. Of course, there remained a burning curiosity about the man who had biologically sired him, but-but—

"What should I do?" He asked faintly.

Merope slid her chair close to him and took his tense, white hand in her own. Her gaze was as dark and deep as he'd ever seen it. "I think you should talk to him. Don't make excuses or apologize—you have nothing to be sorry for, but just… talk." She placed her palm on his cheek. "We have secrets; too many for a normal family, probably, and ones more earth-shaking than this. You'll learn them in time. But your father loves you, Thomas. We both do. Never forget that."

How could he ever? So he let himself fall into her arms and just _float_.

Harry hadn't gone far. When Tom didn't find his father in Midas' room or in the master bedroom, he looked out the window and spotted Harry standing in the backyard, staring at the holly trees. The young boy chewed his lips red as he hurried downstairs and threw on a scarf and wellies. Tossing open the door without further ceremony, he went stomping through the snow as fast as he could manage, marring the near-pristine landscape with foot-shaped hollows.

Harry turned at the noise, his nose red from cold and eyes wide with surprise. "Tom—?"

Thomas threw himself at the older brunette, his arms catching around Harry's middle and clinging as if for dear life.

Harry's arms were around him in an instant, with not even the slightest flicker of hesitation. "Tom? What is it? What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"You will always be my father. No one else." Tom murmured, half-afraid that Harry would turn him away.

Harry was still and silent for a moment, but then shifted Tom's hold on him and knelt and hugged the boy so tightly that Tom found his breath stolen away as his chin came to settle on his father's shoulder.

"I love you, Tom."

And, unsure of the exact reasons why, Tom just clung tighter and cried.

* * *

_To Be Continued... _


	5. A Bang Followed by a Whimper

Boy Who Lived

_BWL is on over 100 alert lists. Wow, you guys are great, spoiling me so! Thanks you guys, especially those of you who take the time to review every chapter. You make this all worth it._

_You know what always really makes my days? When a person whose story/stories I'm a fan of review my stories. Squeal! There's nothing quite so awesome as to note a reviewer's penname and go "Hey, I know that penname! Doesn't his/her story have, like, a thousand reviews or something? And s/he read humble little _me_, eeeee!" _

_I was really surprised to hear that some people got teary at the end of Part 4. It's amazing that I can make such an impact on people. You guys are amazing._

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**Part 5__****—**A Bang Followed By A Whimper

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The remainder of the holiday passed comfortably; as it was every year, the Christmas tree was covered in entirely too much tinsel that Midas was prone to swallow and get sick from; on Christmas Eve they set out vegetables for the reindeer instead of cookies and milk; Merope and Harry and Midas sang "Happy Birthday" while Tom blew out twelve candles as the clock struck midnight. Soon enough the break was over and Tom was shipped off back to school. The following months passed in scholastic bliss for the boy, broken only by Valentines and the Easter holiday. He went home for Easter, but Valentines, he reported, was awe-inspiringly awful—he hadn't gotten the largest batch of fan-girl mail, but calling it an "avalanche" wasn't exactly far off the dot either; girls spanning from borderline-stalkers to simple academic-admirers.

"It's gross!" he lamented in a letter. "Why should I pay attention to them when I have tests to study for? Girls at Middleton Elementary were never like this!"

Merope and Harry teasingly picked at the subject for ages.

The heat of summer drove away the snow, replacing it with heavy, grey rain and the occasional sunny, blue sky. School ended and started up again and ended and started again. Third year Thomas was shipped off with the knowledge that he was a descendent of Salazar Slytherin. Harry was concerned that it would go to Thomas' head and, in fact, it did; but Tom was smart and subtle and wasn't about to go shouting it from any rooftops—or Astronomy Towers, as it were. The fact that he was taking every elective Hogwarts offered would hopefully keep him from forming any group of junior Death Eaters or scouting out the Chamber of Secrets. Admittedly, though, Harry wondered how his son would manage all of the classes—the Time Turners of this era were too tightly regulated to be even considered being used for something as mundane as schoolwork, no matter how gifted the student. When asked, Tom said that he was taking his extra classes on the weekends. Merope worried that her son would push himself too far, stretch himself too thin, but the 13 year-old managed to juggle everything well enough. Valentine's Day was more irritating than ever now that he could travel to Hogsmeade, Tom reported. McGonagall continued to be a consistent presence in his letters, along with his roommates, a boy named Theodore Nott, and a couple other students from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. He mentioned a trouble-attracting first year that was pushing two meters in height, Rubeus Hagrid.

Fourth year, however, Harry's hopes expired and Thomas finally stumbled across the Chamber of Secrets.

"What were you even doing in the girl's bathroom in the first place?" Harry asked, arms crossed. It was the Easter Holiday and Merope was out at Diagon Alley for the afternoon.

Thomas had the decency to blush and bit his lower lip, smiling guiltily. "Ah, well, Lucretia Black and I… um…" His blush deepened when Harry's eyebrow rose. "It was nothing serious! It was all her idea anyway, and I just was curious about what's supposedly so great about relationships so we…"

"Okay, okay," Harry said, holding up his hands in defense, "I don't really need to hear all the dirty details of your budding love life. So you, ah, _experimented_ with Lucretia Black, then what?"

"Well, I mentioned how much cleaner the girls water-closet was, which annoyed her somewhat, but she told me, rather absently, that, and I quote, 'at least the sinks all work in the boys' loo.' When she, ahem," he cleared his throat and glanced away, "Finished with me she scouted the hallway to make sure it was clear and I found that one of the sink faucets had a snake carved into it. I came back later to look at it more closely."

"And you opened it."

"Of course!" The boy frowned suddenly. "Why aren't you more excited by this? It's an amazing discovery! Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets has been a mere myth for centuries and here it turns out that it's _real_!"

Harry dragged a hand over his face, taking a moment to remove his glasses and pinch the bridge of his nose, forehead wrinkling. He had been afraid of this happening, so very afraid, but it seemed that Tom finding the Chamber of Secrets was one of those things that was just destined to happen. What other road bumps would inevitably come to repeat? Would Tom end up becoming Lord Voldemort despite growing up loved?

"Continue your story, please, Tom." He said, rolling his wrist.

"Well… Merlin! I'm not even sure how to put it into words! It was magnificent! Filthy and wet and it stank to high hell, of course,"

"Language."

"But that's only to be expected from being in disuse for so long. It's incredible! Rather twisted, no doubts there, I found a room full of torture devices—all too old to be used, thankfully—and a _library_! It's really awful, the books and things have all aged rather badly, but most of the heavier tomes can still be handled without falling apart. And the _snake_!"

Harry's head snapped up. "You woke up the basilisk?"

Tom's face was a beacon of joy. "You know about it? How do you know? Oh, please, tell me!"

Harry, on the other hand, was feeling anything but happy. "Did you wake it up, Thomas?"

The boy blinked rapidly, a bit of confusion overcoming his features. "Of course I did; I just _had_ to talk to it, you know."

"How long has it been awake?"

"What does—"

"_How long_, Thomas!" Harry raised his voice, pushing a shaking hand through his hair.

Tom stared at his father with wide eyes. "A-about a month."

Harry stood, his chair screeching against the floor as his calves shoved it back. "What've you done?" He said softly.

"Papa…?"

The green-eyed man let out a slow breath, pushing down his bubbling emotions. "Tom, you need to close the Chamber and put the basilisk back to sleep. For good, understand?"

Tom's gleeful demeanor fell away in an instant, his expression rapidly growing defiant. "No. No, I don't understand."

Harry wondered if he'd spoiled Tom. How often had he ever told the boy no? How often had Tom been denied something he asked for? "It's dangerous."

"It is not!" Tom protested.

"Yes, it is, Thomas," Harry sighed. "I've known about the Chamber of Secrets since I was a second year. Salazar Slytherin _created_ that serpent for the sole purpose of having it kill off the muggle-born students."

"She wouldn't hurt anyone unless an Heir orders her to!"

"'She'?" Harry echoed incredulously.

Tom's expression was closed, his lips thin and pinched. "The basilisk is a female."

"Oh, yes, because its sex makes all the difference!" Harry said, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Basilisks can't reproduce anyway! It's an animal, and like any animal _it gets hungry_. And Slytherin's basilisk has a _purpose_ on top of that! It may _listen_ to you, but you can't _control_ it!"

"How would you know?"

"Because I've lived it! I killed a basilisk once and nearly died myself in the process, along with too many others! Some secrets are best left secret!"

"I can control her!"

"No, you can't! And you're going to get somebody _bloody_ _killed_! You leave that monster alone!"

"She's not a monster!"

"What is she then? A puppy?" Harry said, crossing his arms. "Basilisks are classified as quintuple X for a _good_ reason! Sooner or later someone _will_ be petrified or, Merlin forbid, killed, and when that happens—_when_, not if!—it will be a muggle-born!"

"Why does it matter, anyway? They're just _Mudbloods_!"

_Slap!_

Thomas' head snapped to the side and his eyes grew wide with raw shock. His ears were ringing. He stayed frozen in place, uncomprehending; didn't look at his father's face, not wanting to see the fury he knew was burning in Harry's green eyes. Never, _ever_, had Harry ever lifted a hand to Tom or Merope and stricken them. _Never_. Tom had never even had a paddle taken to him before like every other child.

"I don't ever want to hear you say that word again, Thomas Marvolo," Harry said, his voice soft and dark. He slowly lowered his palm, "Do you understand me?"

Tom lifted a hand to his glowing red cheek, his breath erratic and shallow. The space behind his eyes burned.

"Never again, Tom! Merlin's beard, I know Slytherin House has its prejudices, but I thought you had more sense than to give in to them! I thought I raised you better than that!" Harry's voice trembled, near breaking. "Was I wrong? Did I do wrong by you? Where did I go wrong?" He stepped back, breath harsh, hands wandering over his head and neck. "I-I can't… I can't talk to you about this right now. I'm too angry. I can't-I can't _look_ at you right now. I… damn it!"

Harry turned and fled.

Tom's tears finally fell.

Merope came home to a sobbing son and a missing husband. One of the milk bottles broke and leaked all over the kitchen tile when she dropped the grocery bags, but she left it. Tom was her priority. But what was there to say? Tom's words hadn't been meant honestly; when injured, a snake strikes back, after all. While it seemed obvious to Merope that Harry was angrier with himself than with their son, Tom could not so easily forgive and forget and Merope could not ask him to. It was always other boys' fathers that used physical discipline, not Tom, never Harry, and Harry's spur-of-the-moment strike had hurt Tom deeply.

The wound between the two had not healed by the time the holiday ended, and Tom went back to school bitter.

—Only to discover that a student had been mysteriously attacked and petrified during the break.

Fear and apprehension swelled inside the boy at the news and he bit his tongue, not breathing a word to anyone, thankful that the student's condition was not released to the public. Just as Harry said it would be, the student was a muggle-born, a girl by the name of Dorcas Meadowes.

His sharp, somewhat frantic reprimand of the basilisk ultimately went unheeded and in the following weeks he was, too often for his nerves, woken in the middle of the night or disturbed in the middle of the class by the sound of the great serpent slithering through Hogwart's plumbing. He could hear its scales chafing at the pipes surrounding the Slytherin common room, hear it flicking its massive, muscled tongue into the pipes that came off his and his roommates' lavatory, pipes that were too small for its massive body to squeeze through but it was desperate to reach him somehow.

"_Sssso hungry… kill… kill… ssso clossse…"_

Slowly, one after another, students began to fall prey to the basilisk's stare. Petrified. Tom thanked whatever good grace existed that no one had died yet.

"_Kill…filthy mudbloodss… kill… rip… tear… kill!_"

But he didn't know how to close the Chamber and the legible books that remained in Slytherin's library provided no help as to how.

"_Blood! Blood! I can sssmell blood__!_"

Tom hurried to write a letter to his parents before the Daily Prophet found its way into their hands first. His hands shook. The ink smeared in some places and blurred from spare tears in others. All the while the basilisk hissed.

.

_Papa,_

_I'm sorry. You were right about the basilisk. You were right about everything. I don't know what to do anymore. I don't know how to close the Chamber or stop her from petrifying any more students. Please help me._

_~Tom_

_._

A few hours after sending off one of the school owls with the letter, second-year Myrtle Henderson was found dead in the girls' bathroom.

And the basilisk's whisperings just got louder and more insistent.

"_Ssstop them, massster! Don't let them take the mudblood from me! Ssso hungry… feed me… feed me! Feed me__!_"

Tom didn't sleep that night. He lied in bed, curled up in a fetal position, his hands clapped over his ears. He felt as if he was going mad, and the basilisk was the devil on his shoulder. Around and around in his head swirled a single, horrible thought:

"_What have I done__?_"

Harry arrived at the castle in the wee hours of the morning, when the shadows were still long and deep, the sky only lightly tinged with lavender and rosy pink. Save for a few early risers, the students were all still asleep. Accompanying Harry were several Unspeakables and a cloaked birdcage.

"Papa… what's in there?" Tom had a sinking feeling that he already knew what was in the cage.

Harry sighed and gave Tom a somewhat pitying look, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder. "It's a cock, Tom."

Dawn was less than a half hour away.

Tom's chest lurched and he covered his face with his hands. "No…"

"_Tear… kill… ssso hungry_…"

"I'm sorry." Harry whispered.

"No, _I'm_ sorry. But a rooster… do you… do you really have to kill her?"

"It killed Miss Henderson."

"…_filth… kill the mudbloodsss_…_kill…_"

"I know," Tom said shakily, "I _know_, but-but still!"

"This is just how it has to be." Harry pulled his son close. "Go back to your dorm and get packed. I'm taking you home once the Unspeakables are finished."

"M-my tests…"

"Can wait."

As he stood in the empty Great Hall, watching the sun rise through the windows and the enchanted ceiling above him glow with the colors of the dawn, Tom heard the basilisk's dying scream.

The following weeks were hellish; Tom's dreams were filled with nightmares and torturous memories laden with guilt, aimed at both the basilisk and its victims. At times he'd wake up in the night sobbing, his pillows moist, sheets tangled around his legs as if to suffocate him. On those nights, it was most often Harry who was at Tom's bedside with loving whispers and a warm embrace to drive away the hissing, writhing shadows. The radio was kept on—he could hardly stand the silence.

Thomas' involvement with the entire incident was kept tightly under wraps. Outside of the Department of Mysteries, it was known only to his Head of House, Horace Slughorn, the Headmaster, Armando Dippet, and, rather inevitably, Albus Dumbledore. As such, he lost his once-guaranteed position as prefect, though Dippet said that, granted the next two years were nothing short of gleaming perfect, Tom could still earn the badge of Head Boy. Though he had expected as much—worse, even—it went without saying that Thomas was justifiably crushed.

Surprisingly, his friend, Minerva McGonagall, was also upset to learn that Thomas would not be a prefect. Tom was comforted by her distress, if somewhat confused, while Harry and Merope had exchanged knowing smirks.

When the new school year started up again, Tom forewent the Welcoming Feast to track down and apologize to Myrtle Henderson. She was haunting the lavatory she died in, wailing and spitting; it seemed she intended to haunt and harass Olive Hornby, another girl whose teasing had driven Myrtle to taking the bathroom as a sanctuary. Myrtle was surprisingly quick to forgive Tom, being twelve years old and having possessed no small crush on him—that crush, naturally, spluttered into non-existence upon learning that Tom was responsible for her passing, but through her tears she joked half-heartedly:

"You know, if you were that desperate to not go out with me, all you had to do was say no."

Thomas made a point to visit Myrtle regularly that year—when she wasn't stalking Olive, all things considered. Despite being dead, Olive had still managed to make Myrtle cry no small number of times, though it wasn't long until Olive was the one running down the halls with wet cheeks, ghost cackling gleefully in pursuit. Though the prefects and teachers managed to keep Myrtle in line for a while, it was only a matter of time before she stopped heeding them and she even got Peeves the Poltergeist to join in on tormenting Olive and her friends. It almost made Thomas glad that he wasn't a prefect after all, since it meant that he didn't have to chase after the beings in a futile attempt to bring them to heel.

Much to the young man's dismay, the depression that stubbornly clung to Tom attracted more female admirers than ever before, and as the weeks and months passed, his annoyance at the persistent love notes evolved into anger until he was burning them at the breakfast table and sending under-years skittering away in tears. Though he managed to avoid losing House points or getting detention, Minerva made it known—rather loudly, for that matter—that she would not put up with his vinegary attitude for the entire year. Tom's snarky reply that it was good that he wasn't in the same year as "such a bossy, unladylike, Griffindor know-it-all" earned him a rather nasty hex that left him in the Hospital Wing for the better part of a week.

It didn't help his attitude in the least.

His attempts at throwing himself into his studies ended mostly in boredom. Always a gifted learner, Thomas had long since outstripped the standard curriculum for O. W. L. s. Studying the miniscule details—the why's, the when's, the where's, the how's, the who's—could only keep a person occupied for so long. Needless to say, he scored Outstanding on all twelve of his subjects, and even an award for Barnabus Finkley Prize for Exceptional Spellcasting on top of a Medal for Magical Merit.

When he went home that summer, he relaxed at long last and let himself begin to heal. With sixth year came Apparation classes and Minerva was made Head Girl with Cornelius Fudge as Head Boy—who, she told Tom behind the History section in the library one day, was a total and complete fruitcake.

But it was in the back of the library, squeezed between Charms and the Restricted Section, where she kissed him for the first time.

The panes of the window had been cold against his shoulders, decorated with the first icy ferns of winter. Minerva's hands had been warm on his shoulders and the pressing of her mouth sudden and fleeting. She turned and ran a moment later looking mortified at her actions, a curly lock loose from the high bun Thomas had never seen her without. She clutched a book to her chest like a shield. Afterwards, they avoided each other, neither knowing what to do or say.

Harry and Merope were disturbed by Tom's distance from them when he returned for Christmas. Merope's matronly instincts shrieked at her to comfort her son, but as had increasingly become the case over the years, she knew that the things haunting Thomas were best spoken of to his father.

"Talk to him," she whispered in Harry's ear as she wrapped a wool scarf around his neck. He and Thomas were off to find that year's Christmas tree and hopefully a Yule Log as well. Tom was reluctant to go, and Merope knew he would stay cooped up in his room with Midas the entire holiday if not for Harry's persistence at carrying out the tradition. As it was, he stood in the entryway with his nose buried in his green and grey scarf, looking pinched and sour.

Harry nodded minutely at his wife and kissed her shortly before leaving, Thomas reluctantly following with his hands shoved in his pockets. Harry kept up a rather consistent one-sided conversation as they trudged through the snow. Once in a while, usually when posed a question, Tom would throw in his two pence.

Harry finally found a suitable tree—a short, generously endowed pine—but when he began to chop at it, a well-placed Cutting Hex flew from Tom's wand and felled the evergreen. Harry paused and looked over at his son, but Thomas wasn't looking at him.

"Can we go home now?"

Harry straightened slowly and watched Tom flinch upon feeling green eyes on his back. "No, not yet. Why did you do that?"

"I don't feel like freezing my arse off out here for another quarter of an hour. Sorry." The almost-seventeen year-old snapped.

Harry didn't buy a single word. "I see. Is there anything you'd like to tell me, Tom?"

"Don't do that," the young man hissed, suddenly incensed, "Professor Dumbledore does that. I _hate_ it. No, there's nothing I'd _like_ to tell you."

"How about something you _ought_ to tell me?"

Thomas was silent.

"Your mother is worried about you. I am too, to a degree. Though my experiences are not the same as the ones you've gone through, I've seen people die because of my mistakes and let it consume me until I was angry with everyone and everything. I—"

"Don't preach to me, Papa, don't!" Tom cut in sharply. "You're right, okay, you're _always_ right! You've proven that time and _time_ again! But some of us just don't have it in us to be good, golden, _noble_ people like _you_, okay?"

"You're a good person, Tom."

"No," he said bitterly, "I'm not."

"You are." Harry came up from behind and placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder. Tom's flesh jumped and his head snapped to the side in reflexive alarm. The Slytherin was taller than his parent by several centimeters now. "I've watched over you since the hour you were born to the young man that's standing beside me right now. You are a good person. You are my son. I love you."

"I don't deserve your love."

Harry's hand tightened. "Everyone deserves to be loved. Even the wickedest of men."

Silence reigned between them for several moments. Tom crossed his arms and lifted his shoulders, jamming his fingers under his armpits.

"Papa, what's wrong with me?" Tom asked softly.

Harry's demeanor sharpened with alarm. "Wrong with you, Tom?"

The teen looked frustrated, nearly pained and he tried to bury his face more deeply into the scarf around his neck. " I don't… understand. There are… feelings that other people have, that you and Mum have, that I don't… I can't…" he bit his lower lip and brought a hand to his chest, fingers hovering over his heart. "There's something that I'm missing. But I don't know _what_ it is. I just know that everyone else has it, but I don't. I don't _feel_ like other people do. And it…" He trailed off, frustrated that words were failing him so severely.

Harry felt a knot form in his throat. Was Tom's deficiency in experiencing love rooted in Merope's love potion, or was it more than that? How was it that, even in the loving, warm environment he was growing up in, Tom still could not process love like a normal human being? Marvolo and Morfin had been cruel in much the same way Voldemort had; was it a genetic defect, a switch that failed to be flipped due to generations of near-incest and overly-concentrated blood? Or was it simply the hormonal imbalance that came with being an adolescent that had so _trendily_ and openly plagued teens back in Harry's own time?

"Love," Harry whispered, mostly to himself.

"Love." Tom repeated, pressing a hand to the space over his heart. His features looked positively tortured. "Is that it? Is that what's missing? But… I don't understand. You and Mum have loved me so much, and I loved you too, so why… why don't I… why can't I _feel_ it anymore?"

"Sometimes," Harry said softly, "When we get older, we lose the things we had when were children. It can be unbearably hard to get those things back. Usually, we manage, but some people… some people don't survive it."

"The worst part of it is that it feels _comfortable_, Papa." Tom admitted. "Like hiding under a bed. Like I could stay there forever and be… well, not _happy_, exactly, but… safe. Comfortable."

"How long have you been feeling like this?"

Tom thought about it, his dark eyes fixated on the snow at his feet. "Since… _her_…"

The basilisk.

"…But, I think she might have just been… a catalyst. I might've felt like this before, but… I'm not sure anymore."

Harry fell into silence, knowing that his son wasn't quite finished. He longed to take the younger man into his arms, but resisted. Tom's stance was like a coiled serpent, defensive and wary; to push him too far and get too close would only result in Harry getting snapped at and Thomas retreating further into himself.

"Minerva kissed me." He blurted.

Harry blinked, momentarily overcome with shock. "McGonagall?"

"Yes. I…" Tom threaded a hand through his pristine hair, ruffling it. "I don't know what to do. She… I've always admired Minerva and I wonder how I missed all the signs before—it seems so obvious now. However… she deserves someone who loves her back and I… since _her _I… I've been deficient."

"Tom…"

"No, Papa, I am! I really am, okay? Nothing's been right since I opened the Chamber, and when Minerva kissed me I went numb—like there was a gap that couldn't fill itself. I was supposed to feel something, but I didn't. The feelings were just… _gone_."

"Not gone, just lost."

"How do you know?"

Harry closed his eyes, thinking back on a miserable night from another lifetime, another era, yet the words fell from his lips as if they were fresh. "There is a room in the Department of Mysteries that is kept locked at all times. It contains a force that is at once more wonderful and more terrible than death, than human intelligence, than forces of nature. It is also, perhaps, the most mysterious of the many objects for study that reside there. Once, before I knew what it was, I tried to use a knife to unlock the door, but the blade evaporated."

"Wha…" Tom swallowed thickly. "What is it?"

Harry's eyes were bright and piercing, his expression somewhat sad. "Love."

Thomas' exhale was shaky, as if he didn't dare believe.

"If you decide to give yourself a chance with McGonagall, don't keep her in the dark about your feelings—or lack thereof, as the case might be. She should know. The missing piece of your heart—that numbness, that emptiness—it's love, and though there are substitutes, only love can truly fill the void. Your mother and I will do our best to help you. We love you, Tom. We will always love you; never forget that."

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_To Be Concluded..._

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Notes: _In case you don't know: In this fic, the Chamber of Secrets was opened a year earlier than in canon._

_Slytherin's Basilisk is totally a female. The Harry Potter Wiki says so. So there. And before anyone tries to debate me: no, basilisks really cannot reproduce-they're born from chicken eggs hatched under toads. There is no such thing as a basilisk egg._

_ Myrtle's surname is not revealed in canon, but Henderson is the surname of the actress that plays her._

_Yes, I made this TomMinerva. I hope that doesn't put anybody off too much! Don't ditch me now!_

_The title of this Part is a reference to this famous poetry quote by T. S. Eliot: "This is how the world ends: not with a bang, but a whimper."_

_In regards to that mysterious door in the DoM: obviously we don't know much about it, but I think that it is where all the misplaced and lost love in the world goes. Just a theory._


	6. Learning to Live

Boy Who Lived

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_**Part 6—Learning to Live**_

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When he went back to school, Thomas tracked down Minerva and told her everything. Such a full and brutal confession wasn't necessary, but he had felt it needed to be said; that she needed to know, truly, who he was if she intended on pursing him. Her first reaction, naturally, was shock and fear, but she didn't run. A gap formed and lingered for several days as the depth and severity of his confession settled and embedded itself in her mind, but finally she pulled him aside and declared that she fancied him still. They began courting in earnest.

However, Minerva was Head Girl, and between her Head duties and preparing for her N. E. W. T. s, their moments in each other's company felt far too few and brief. In what seemed no time at all, May arrived and with it her graduation. Something not-quite heartbreak plagued them, made them reluctant to release the other's fingers and start taking steps in different directions. There was relief to be found in that Thomas' graduation was only a year behind, even if it felt like a lifetime. Owls carrying thick letters became a common sight at the Holly Copse Cottage. Thomas was happier than he had been in a long time.

It must be said that all too often the case in life is that for every step made forward there are two steps made in the reverse. The road to recovery, no matter what variation of such it may be, is always peppered with bumps and dips and slick mud that can trip up a person.

Perhaps it was simply fate that, in some way or another, Thomas and Harry would always conflict, always end up fighting, despite their likenesses—or perhaps _because_ of those similarities. They could never be fully cooperative or agreeable with one another. While there were no doubts that Harry loved his son, the man's past—or future, as it were—made him paranoid, and in places where it would have been better to be lax, Harry found his responses harsh and overcompensating.

All adolescents rebel against their parents at some point in their lives, argue at least once, no matter how well-loved, no matter how well they get along; and though Tom admired and adored Harry, the fact could not be erased that it was another man and not his father that donated half of Thomas' genetic code. The subject was tender, nearly taboo; a red demon that hid in the shadows of the house and was never spoken of, never looked at; but always there.

In the aftermath, neither Harry nor Thomas would be able to recall just what started their argument, or even what led it to escalate to the level it did. Harry pulled the "I'm the parent here" card, and then it was bubbling up from Tom's stomach, into his mouth and spitting out with the intention to hurt-hurt-_hurt_—

"You're not even my real father!" Tom screamed. It was the wrong thing to say, a very, very bad thing to say. As soon as the words left his mouth he knew he was going to regret it, wished he could catch the words in the air and shove them back between his lips, but it was too late.

"I'm your father in every way that actually _matters_!" Harry snarled.

The anger on Harry's face was terrifying, and some primal part of Tom was afraid that his father would lift a hand to him as he did once before. Cornered, injured, afraid of the whiplash that might occur if he bit back, Tom fled.

"Where are you going?" Harry demanded, stomping up the stairs. "Tom! Thomas!"

The young man's bedroom door was ajar. Harry flung the door open just in time to see his son shove something in a messenger bag. Thomas looked up, his eyes dark and rimmed in red.

"Tom!"

His form twisted and then vanished with a pop.

Harry swore and hit the heel of his fist against the doorframe. The tension drained from him and his shoulders drooped as he lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop for weeks," came Merope's quiet voice. Harry looked up to see her standing outside the Master bedroom, wringing her hands. She continued, "You two can never go too long without disagreeing about something. You're too alike. But, admittedly, I didn't expect this one to be so," she paused, frowning, and her glasses slid down her nose, "Explosive."

"I'm sorry," he sighed, "It's just… the way he is sometimes, I… I'm a terrible father."

"No, you're a wonderful father," Merope insisted, stepping forward and placing her hands on his forearms, "You do your best by us, you always have. You simply… get passionate when you're angry. I know you have good reasons for denying us things sometimes, like saying it wouldn't be good to go to London one day, or to buy something-or-other, but it's not always easy not being able to know the reasons _why_. Yes, I know about the Blitz _now_, but at the time…"

"I'm sorry," Harry murmured, trailing his hands down the insides of her wrists and finally threading their fingers together, "I wish I could tell you both everything, but I can't. I _can't_—"

"Hush, my love," she said, lifting one hand to caress his cheek, "I know. I do, but Tom doesn't, and for him that makes it harder. Don't go chasing after him right now; give him time to cool down. Knowing him, he'll have gone to Miss McGonagall's home. We can floo them a bit later and check in, alright?"

Harry breathed in slowly, deeply, and nodded, resting his forehead against Merope's and taking comfort in the simple sensation of her body pressed against his.

But when they flooed the McGonagalls that evening, they discovered that Thomas was not there, and Minerva had not heard from him at all since his last letter several days before. Floo-calling Tom's dorm-mates yielded similar results—he wasn't with any of them nor had he contacted any of them. A thread of black dread burrowed and coiled itself up in the Potter couple's hearts. Each member of the Holly Copse Cottage had left an argument and taken a walk, a breather, at some point, but none of them—not Harry, not Merope, not Thomas—had ever simply _not come back_.

Like any mother, Merope's mind couldn't help but leap to the worst conclusion. So, they immediately set to searching, but where to begin looking? As a mere student, there were few places Thomas could frequent, and fewer still due to that, as a subject and not an employee, Harry was not granted time for vacations. The family had never taken a weekend to visit a French beach or see Stonehedge; it simply was never an option. There was no sight of Tom in Middleton, nor was he in Hogsmeade. Hide or hair of him could not be found Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley, either. And even though it was the middle of the night, the earliest hours of the morning, and London was by-and-large asleep, how could they track him down in the city's old, winding streets and alleys, assuming Thomas was in London at all?

Merope was exhausted and near hysterics by the time Big Ben rung 3am. Feeling defeated, his blood hot with guilt, Harry apparated them home. She immediately went to lie down on the couch while he put the kettle on the stove. He considered sending Midas or an owl to take a letter to Tom, but the thought was dismissed quickly; the mailing system in the 40's was not precise enough to track down a single individual no matter where he or she was. If a person's location was unknown then the delivery bird would not be able to deliver.

At fifteen minutes until 6am, the front door opened with a soft click and Harry and Merope sprang to their feet. It was Tom. Merope threw her arms around him and kissed him all over his face, babbling about how worried she had been, near tears. But, Harry saw, Thomas was unresponsive; his arms slack at his sides and face carefully blank. The black dread that had nested itself in Harry's chest swelled.

"Tom," he began carefully, "What happened?"

The young man lifted his eyes, wondering how his father knew, how he _always_ knew.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, before his expression crumpled and he buried his face in his hands, drawing in a shivering breath. Harry and Merope exchanged a look of alarm before ushering the young man onto the sofa. Merope stroked his face and hair with her hands constantly, trying to get him to look at her, but Tom's eyes remained lowered.

"Where have you been?" she asked. "We looked everywhere for you, Tom, Diagon Ally, Hogsmeade, Middleton, we couldn't find you."

"I went to Little Hangleton." Tom said very quietly.

Harry's eyes slid shut, as if in pain.

Merope's eyebrows rose. "Little Hang… but, why would—"

"I met the Riddles." Tom trembled, his wide eyes staring unblinking and dry at the coffee table. "I killed them."

Harry pursed his lips, and Merope gasped and lifted her hands to her mouth.

"Thomas—"

"He deserved it! They all deserved it! They were awful and rich and bigoted and-and…" he twined his fingers in his hair and choked on a dry sob, his mouth contorting in agony. "I hate them! And they're _dead_! I wish I'd never tried to find him! He had my face. I couldn't stand him having my face. I'm not sorry I killed them; I wish I were sorry. I'm a horrible person, I know I am, I know, but please don't hate me, Mum, Papa, please don't hate me, don't send me to Azkaban…"

Merope pulled her son to her, cradling the back of his head as she placed his head in the crook of her neck. "Oh, _Tommy_. We could never hate you."

Harry was breathing at a controlled pace, mouth pinched. It was clear he was trying to control the outburst that wanted to writhe its way out of his mouth. Finally, he seemed to steady himself and his posture grew impossibly straight, his shoulders thrown back.

"Thomas," Harry said.

Tom pulled his head out of Merope's grasp to look at his father with wet, pained eyes. "I'm sorry." He said.

"This can't go on. This is the last time, Thomas, the last time. I won't do it again. I _can't keep_ doing it."

"Papa?"

But Harry wasn't looking at him now; his green eyes were fixated on Merope. "I'm sorry, Merope," he breathed, "If you ever want… if you think I should…"

"No," she replied softly, "I understand."

Harry nodded and vanished with an ear-popping crack.

Thomas stared at the spot Harry had vanished from. "Mum? Mum, what's Papa going to do? What is he doing?"

"Shh, Tommy," she crooned, embracing him, "Harry loves you, Tommy. Your father is going to take care of everything." Tears fell from her eyes and splashed across Tom's shoulder.

The young man felt his stomach drop, his heart skip a beat. "No. No, he can't, he _can't_! Papa can't take the blame for what I did!"

Merope's hands tightened around his waist. "That's not what he's doing. There's only one wizard in Little Hangleton, and he'll be happy to take credit for their deaths."

Tom went very still as her words settled in his brain. "Your brother. Uncle Morfin."

Her breath was shaky and several more tears fell. In a very small voice she responded, "Yes."

"Papa is going to frame Morfin Gaunt for the Riddle's murders."

"Yes." Her voice cracked.

Gently, so gently, Thomas loosened his mother's hands from around his waist so that he could turn to face her and wrap his arms around her petite form. "Mum. Oh, Mum,"

She clung to him like a lifeline. "I don't know what I feel. Morfin is… Morfin was… There aren't words for Morfin. He means so little and he means so much. Even after all these years… I've never quite been able to bring myself to hate him, but I can't be sure I ever loved him like a sister should, and I can't help but wonder if he ever loved me, ever, if he ever cared about me in some way, even when we were children and innocent—but were we ever innocent? I don't know," she sobbed into Tom's jumper. "I don't know. He's still my brother, still my blood, still… but I—but I…"

"I'm sorry, Mum," he wheezed, "I'm sorry I'm not a better son, a better person. I'm so sorry."

"Shh, love," she said, leaning back until her shoulders rested against the arm of the sofa and Thomas' cheek rested on her abdomen. "It-it'll be okay. Everything will be okay." She was reassuring herself as much as she was Tom.

"Oh, Merlin," he gasped suddenly, "T-they'll never let me be Head Boy now; I—no, never, not after fourth year. No, no, _no_…"

"They can't deny you the chance to be Head Boy because of this, Tommy. This has nothing to do with school." She squeezed him tighter, helpless to more than hold her son as he fell apart bit-by-bit in her arms. Thomas wanted to be Head Boy more than anything. Merope had no doubt that he would do well in the position, that he would be the best Head Boy Hogwart's had ever had, and that he would grow and strengthen immensely from the experience. But Tom had made mistakes, big mistakes, and those mishaps could all too easily prevent him the opportunity to reach his fullest potential.

She wasn't sure what to feel regarding her brother. Relief? Grief? She couldn't outright claim to possess a great love for Morfin, but he was, nevertheless, her sibling, someone she had grown up with and known for the first 18 years of her life, and there remained a form of twisted, misplaced affection.

She held Thomas more tightly to her, shivering and sniveling, and softly sang an old Irish folk song, intended to comfort herself as much as her son.

"Well your pretty little hands, they can't handle our tackle,

"And your dainty little feet on our topmast can' go,

"An' the cold stormy weather, love, you can't well endure,

"I would have you ashore when the winds they do blow."

She ran her fingers through his hair as she sung, rubbing small circles on the nape of his neck and between his shoulders, and Thomas buried his face in her stomach and finally, _finally_ let the dam break.

By the time Harry made it home it was well into daylight and Merope and Tom were still on the couch, asleep, Thomas cradled between her legs, her hands resting on his shoulder and in his hair. With a heavy heart, Harry gently prodded the two awake.

"Hey," he said softly to Tom, "As much as I'd like to, you're really too old for me to carry up the stairs to bed anymore."

The adolescent blinked slowly, sleepily, his expression soft as his mind drifted out of the fuzzy realm of unconsciousness. All too soon lines of hard, painful guilt scarred the innocent image. He lifted a hand to cover his eyes—a useless, feeble attempt to hide from the world for a moment, however fleeting—and Harry merely smiled sadly.

He looked up at Merope, who was looking at him with wide, melancholy eyes, and kissed her.

"It's done."

Thomas made a strange, sloppy noise, too tired to properly sob.

Morfin's sentence to Azkaban was in the Daily Prophet the next day, the man's planted confession laid out in black and white and over-embellished description. The photograph of Morfin's sneering, proud face was disturbing and frightening. Upon seeing and reading the article, Merope fell into a deafening silence and Harry wished he had the freedom to call in sick to stay home and comfort his wife and son. Thomas, unable to bear the silence—oh, Merlin, the _silence_—and the oppressing atmosphere it carried, spent the entire day with the radio blaring and pounding on the piano, Midas on his shoulder. When Harry got home, he dropped everything he had and tugged Thomas upstairs and man, wife, and son lay together on the master bed, pulling strength from one another. Tom felt like he had regressed ten years, curled in his mother's lap, Merope herself held in the crook of Harry's arm.

When the day dawned the next morning, the world didn't seem half as grey as it had before, and though a heavy weight still remained on Thomas' chest, he felt like he could now carry it without collapsing. Merope was still asleep and Tom's ear was pressed against her bosom. He sighed and wrapped an arm around her, clinging in a way he hadn't been since he was a mere boy. Midas was perched on the nightstand, watching quietly with big, grey eyes, his feathers bright in the sunlight. Harry was absent, but the smell of cooking sausages and eggs told his location. It was some minutes before Tom finally disentangled himself from his mother's limp, warm embrace, reluctant to face the world, but determined to go on living. The sleeping arrangement quickly became routine; in the night Merope's whimpers were shushed and soothed, Thomas' abrupt awakenings of sedatephobia were calmed by sleepy mumbles and Midas' or Merope's quiet singing.

Harry kept his nightmares to himself: flashes of green—a red haired woman's screams—a black-haired man falling through a draped archway—an old man resembling Father Christmas falling-falling-falling—a long-lost friend's sobs of "I don't know! I DON'T KNOW!"—a white-faced, red-eyed man rising from a steaming cauldron in a graveyard.

In time, Merope finished grieving and Thomas went back to sleeping in his room, though, occasionally, he would wake in the night and creep into his parents' room and slip between them and the safety they provided. Eventually, those nights became rarities too, but the sound of a masterfully played piano and a parrot's note wandering whistling continued to fill the afternoons.

"I've been made Head Boy," Thomas said one day in August, Hogwarts letter and badge clasped in hand. His parents looked over at him. Tom continued. "I'm not sure I should accept it."

Merope frowned worriedly. "Why?"

He licked his lips slowly. "I don't feel like I deserve it."

"Do you want it?" Harry asked over the newspaper.

"I… yes. I want it. But I've done things…"

"Those things don't matter," Harry cut in, "What happened with the Chamber of Secrets was an accident, and the Riddles have nothing to do with school. If you want it, I think you should accept it. I think that you will be good at it, and, more than that, it will be good for you."

Well, he had already hit rock bottom, there was nowhere else to go but up.

Thomas was at his best when he was busy, and being Head Boy certainly kept him busy. There was no time to dwell on past regrets or future worries—aside from the upcoming N. E. W. T. s—and good dreams far outweighed the nightmares and on the occasion when he woke in the night his status gave him the freedom to visit the music room. His natural leadership skills blossomed and fruited as underclassmen came to him seeking solutions to disputes, help on their homework, tutoring, finding lost pets. He took no small amount of pleasure giving detentions to bullies, remembering his own lonely times being pushed about at Middleton Elementary and his Housemates' initially harsh reaction to his blood status.

On some Hogsmeade weekends he was able to meet with Minerva and they would spend the afternoons browsing the bookshop or talking over a hot meal and mulled wine. He didn't tell her about the Riddles, the subject too fresh, too personal. She could tell that something had changed in him, however, and reassured him that she would be there whenever he wanted to talk. He wasn't sure if he ever would.

They explored the forest one weekend in November, the field that would someday host the Shrieking Shack, and their playful banter soon grew into a merry chase. Minerva flitted through the trees, deftly hopping over raised tree roots and rotting logs, her smile wide and eyes bright with laughter as she ran from her younger beau. Thomas lacked her nimbleness, but he was swifter and cleverer by far. He was nevertheless surprised that, when she crashed into him, there was enough force behind her momentum that he was knocked clear off his feet.

He groaned as his back hit the ground, dull pain blossoming from the impact.

Minerva gasped, jerking in his arms. "Oh, are you okay, Tom? I'm sorry!"

He smiled up at her breathlessly. "S'kay. Just knocked the wind out of me. You were really moving, weren't you?"

"Sorry," she smiled teasingly, "Should I kiss it better?"

He smirked back and lifted his head to kiss her, tasting her surprise; clearly, she had not actually expected him to do such.

"Yeah, I feel much better now."

"Oh, you!" She huffed, lightly slapping him on the arm, but there was a Griffindor-red flush on her cheeks and when he laughed she leaned down to silence him with another kiss.

"Minerva?"

"Mm?"

"I think I might love you."

It was a spur-of-the-moment confession, and he wasn't sure where the words came from, so he was a bit surprised to realize that he meant it. She stiffened minutely and raised herself up so that she could look him in the eye.

"Really?" She breathed.

"Yeah."

She glowed and positively purred her reply. "Well, that's just swell then."

And it was.

The first snowfall was late in coming that year, but when it finally fell the landscape was covered in a thick, white blanket overnight. The following weeks passed in a whirlwind of ascending good fortune. Come Christmas, Thomas was happier, more whole, than he had been in years despite the crack his soul now bore. With January came the mock N. E. W T. s and O. W. L. s and he found himself doing more tutoring than studying. Of course, he got perfect scores on the mock tests, regardless.

In what seemed to be almost no time at all, it was June. Thomas passed his N. E. W. T. s with flying colors and another award. There was little time to relax or celebrate the end of the testing, as the Graduation Ceremony was a mere two days afterward, so the seventh years could be found fretting and bustling about as they prepared themselves and relished their final days walking Hogwarts' halls. For Tom, nervousness didn't even set in until families began filtering into the Great Hall. The ceiling was clear and blue.

Peering out at the Hall from behind the door of the chamber behind where the Staff Table usually was, Thomas spotted his parents sitting with Minerva. He clutched a slip of parchment—on which was written his farewell speech—in his hand and resumed pacing restlessly, going over his lines in his head and spinning his wand between his fingers

"Will you please _stop_? You're making _me_ nervous!"

Tom paused and gave a disgruntled glare to the Head Girl: bony, intimidating, Hufflepuff, Augusta Finch.

"Sorry," he said.

"No, you're not," she corrected him, "But it's alright anyway, I suppose. Keep up that pace, though, and you really are going to wear a line in the floor."

He snorted, feeling some of the tenseness in his shoulders evaporate. "In ten minutes? Unlikely."

"You're _Thomas Potter_. I wouldn't put much of anything past _you_."

He smirked, the gesture completely and purely Slytherin, but was saved from having to reply by the arrival of Headmaster Dippet. The two soon-to-be alumni took a brief moment to straighten out their appearances before being led to the stage. Long, standing applause greeted them. Tom and Augusta bowed and curtsied in reply accordingly before Augusta stepped up to the podium and made her speech, straight-backed and proud in a way that was uncharacteristic of her House. The applause that followed was thunderous.

As Thomas took his turn to make his speech, Harry and Merope waved, and he took a deep breath and threw his shoulders back, standing tall. The sea of faces watched his with rapt, eager attention. A camera flashed.

Tom began to speak.

"It's amazing to realize that we have made it this far; that I am standing here before you. It seems like a lifetime ago, or perhaps only yesterday, that we walked through those doors as a group of un-Sorted, nervous first years, in awe of the castle around us and concerned that the method used to Sort us into our respective Houses was to wrestle a Troll or some other silly notion. To realize that this is the end is almost surreal.

"My years here at Hogwarts have simultaneously been the best and worst years of my life. There have been monsters in these halls—not only in the form of fantastic beasts, but in the forms of spoken word and rumor mill, in stacks of assigned papers and sleepless nights. There have been points awarded, pride gained; love lost and found again. I've done things that I'm proud of, and I've done things I wish I could go back in time and undo, as I'm sure we all have.

"I don't have words for how honored I am to have served as your Head Boy, how much helping _you_ has helped _me_, and it fills me with pride to be the one to see the Class of nineteen forty-five off into the world, to have _been_ a part of that class. I will miss seeing you all every day, going to class together, arguing over the breakfast table. I can only send you off with my blessings. I wish you all the best in your journeys outside of these halls. May you all follow and capture your dreams, and _live_. I know I will."

* * *

_The End._

_

* * *

_

_Notes: __As I hope is now evident, t__he title of this fic does not necessarily refer to Harry. It is meant to doubly imply that the "Boy Who Lived" is Tom, who got to experience family and a loving environment and struggled and persevered regardless, instead of being on his own as he was the first time around. ____Anyone who wants to write a continuation is welcome to it!_

_My original plans for Morfin involved him showing up at Holly Copse Cottage and ranting and raving and trying to kill the Potters only to die himself, but the more the story progressed the more I realized I wanted Riddle Sr. to be killed, but to do that and keep Tom out of Azkaban, there had to be someone to lay the blame on, and Morfin was really the only fella who could fit that bill._

_The song Merope sings to Tom is "Farewell Lovely Nancy;" I imagine her singing Ed Harcourt's version. It doesn't fit the situation exceedingly well, word-wise, but I greatly enjoy the melody. The song I imagine Tom playing on the piano is "Song of Storms Piano Version" by GameQber. Both songs can be easily found on Youtube._

_For anyone wondering: sedatephobia is fear of silence._

___Augusta Longbottom's maiden name is not known to canon, but Finch is the surname of the actress that plays her, and there is also Justin Finch-Fletchley, so it could still stand as a pureblood surname. Yes, I totally made Neville's Gran a hardcore-Hufflepuff. Why? Because I'M a hardcore-Hufflepuff!_

_Yes, it's actually ending here. This is not an epic-length fic that will carry us all the way back to 1998. I'__m in the middle of writing a novel, so I wasn't willing to give BWL quite _that much___ attention when I have career-fish to fry. I can't say I'm _completely___ satisfied with Tom, I would have liked to delve into his psyche more and have his struggle be linked more to hereditary mental-illness (namely psychopathy), but I wanted a happy(ish) ending, at least, so I just skimmed the surface and didn't do any deep-sea diving. Does he still have the potential to become Voldemort at this point? I certainly like to think so; personally, I think it would be a life-long struggle (has anyone read Niger Aquilla's "Rectifier"? I picture it a little bit like that)._

___Thank you all so much for your wonderful reviews, for taking the time to read and enjoy this, I can't express with words just how much I appreciate it. Do keep an eye out for future fics of mine, yes?_

___Happy reading, loves!  
Megii of Mysteri OusStranger _


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